


the kingsman tumblr collective

by thatgirlwho



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Spoilers for The Golden Circle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-11-01 03:11:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 24,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10913112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/pseuds/thatgirlwho
Summary: A collection of prompt fills and drabbles from Tumblr.Now contains spoilers for "The Golden Circle".





	1. "that one's mine" (hartwin; ryan, jamal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan and Jamal meet Harry Hart.

Imagine Ryan and Jamal over at Eggsy’s new place for the first time (they’d seen each other a few times after Eggsy’s a true Kingsman but he never stayed long, always leaving a half finished beer on the table; the guys noticed he always seemed more distant, less himself, but they just think it’s his new job eating up all his energy).

But he invites them over to see the new place, once he’s settled. He wants them to meet someone. Someone new. Pretty special, this one. 

_got a posh bird eggsy??_

_haha sumthin like it_

Eggsy misses his mates and ever since he laid Dean and his goons out on the floor of The Black Prince, he knows they don’t have their old stomping grounds to meet up. So, his place it is. 

And they come over and Eggsy opens the door and he’s got this wide grin that takes up his whole face and he pulls his best mates into this crushing hug because he loves them and he misses them. And they seem a world apart, Eggsy with his hair slicked back and still in his bespoke trousers and pressed white dress shirt; Ryan and Jamal feel out of place in their trainers and jeans and sweaters, standing in the hall of a posh house and how natural Eggsy looks in it. 

But Eggsy knows how to make people at home. He knows how to make his mates feel at ease. So, pretty soon they are a few beer deep, laughing about all those memories that keep them close, and Ryan and Jamal kind of know that even though Eggsy dresses like he walks the streets a proper posh bloke, he’s still their best mate. The same kid they raised hell with, sat in the pub with, went through all the highs and lows of life with. That’s the kind of bond that doesn’t just go away, not with them. 

Eggsy’s guilt over having to ignore their calls and texts for those months he was in training will never really subside. But he’s glad they can be like this, still. 

_Where’s this person you’ve been talking about?_

Eggsy bounces his knee. _Just running late. Work, ya know._

Eggsy tells them to take their feet off the table. Makes them use coasters. When he goes to refill their glasses, Ryan and Jamal exchange looks but do as Eggsy asks. It’s his house, after all. 

It’s been a few hours and their cheeks hurt from laughing and Eggsy’s sunk back into the couch when the front door clicks and opens. A man, tall and slender and poised like every step is an opportunity to impress, walks in and hangs up his umbrella. Instantly, Ryan and Jamal sit up a little straighter and Jamal adjusts his cap. (Only Eggsy notices the slight slump in the man’s shoulders.)

 _Hey, Harry_ , Eggsy calls, dipping his head back. 

Must be Michelle’s new man. She’s well fit and it makes sense she’d find a gentlemanly bloke like that after moving up in the world. Ryan and Jamal aren’t surprised and it makes sense why Eggsy makes them use coasters. The house must belong to the guy quietly unlacing his polished shoes in the foyer. He looks like the kind of bloke that folds his socks and washes his cup after each use. Eggsy’s just respecting the space. 

And Jamal’s halfway through asking, _Eggsy, that’s your mum’s new–_ when Harry comes through to the living room, leans over the couch to take Eggsy’s face in his hands, Eggsy leaning back and pushing up a bit to meet the older man’s lips and smiles into the kiss. 

And it’s only through good graces that Ryan and Jamal react when Harry walks around the couch, reaches out a hand and introduces himself, all flattering and proper and genial, _I’m Harry Hart. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Eggsy talks about you enough. I hope you’ve made yourself at home. I wish I could stay to chat but it was a rather trying day at the office. Again, pleasure to meet you. Maybe come for supper one night?_

And Harry Hart is around the corner and gone before Ryan and Jamal can completely comprehend what just unravelled before them. And it’s not that Eggsy’s with a bloke–no, that was something they’d always known and Eggsy was so comfortable with it that it never was an issue–or that he’s older, considerably older. It’s that Eggsy, the cocksure chav fucker that wore adidas tracks and did jaeger shots on Tuesday nights and made the most obscene jokes, landed a god damn gentlemen, like he walked straight from the Queen’s palace. 

And Eggsy, the nervy little twat, his arms crossed in front of him, shrugging, that undeniably smug grin on his face because he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, looks at his best mates and says, _Nah, nothing like that, bruv. That one’s mine._


	2. his mum first (michelle; hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michelle comes to terms with how Harry Hart seems to keep showing up in her life.

Imagine how hard it would be for Michelle to accept Harry Hart as her son's partner, boyfriend, lover. She's not the kind of person to hold a grudge, and she’s had years, no matter how long and unstable, to realize it was Lee who made _that_  decision, but the day Harry Hart told her that her husband had died and not much else, everything changed. And that's the kind of thing you can't forget or overlook. 

She worries about Eggsy. She still doesn't know what he does (but Eggsy worries about her enough as well that he tells her what he can-- _no mum I'm not really a tailor but I do get to keep the suit_ ) and she knows where those kind of secrets left her--alone, without Lee. She lives every day with what she didn't know of her husbands life, his death, and what came after. She tries to imagine Eggsy the same way and she thinks of dark places and secrets and she panics. She always panics but she makes herself smile as he walks out the door because Eggsy's made his choice. 

And then there is Harry Hart. She doesn't blame Harry for her husband’s death but she can't help but wonder what their life would be like if Lee had never met Harry Hart. She wonders if she will have to bury her son, too, with Harry Hart telling her _I'm sorry I can't say much more_.

And then. Eggsy falls in love. And his face is bright and warm for the first time in years and all he can talk about when he comes over for dinner is _Harry did this_ , and _that_ , and how _Harry is taking me out here_ , and _there_. She eats and chews longer than she should so the words don't slip from her mouth and she takes this thing, _this one thing_ , from him. She hasn't see Eggsy with a true smile on his face for so long that her disapproval cannot overcome with her desire to see her boy _happy_.

She is his mum first.

So, she grins and bears it. And she doesn't sleep, not well anyway, with Daisy beside her snoring softly, the weeks Eggsy is gone with only a text saying he'll call when he can (when she's really lucky, he's able to tell her in person and give her a peck on the cheek and a cheery wave as he hops down the steps in his bespoke suit). And she keeps every one of those messages and reads them over and over until he does call and she can breathe again.

And then--Harry starts showing up at her door. At first her heart lodges in her throat and she thinks all the air has left the world and she wants to fall to the floor but Harry's eyes go wide and he tells her, voice tight and rushed, _Eggsy's alright--I just wanted to see how you are doing._

Eggsy had said Harry was one of _those people_  from V-Day. Those people with the scars. He's still around lots at the shop but he's kind of retired, doing mostly paper work and the like. He stills looks out for Eggsy, always, but he's not jetting off around the world like Eggsy does, going wherever he goes when her world turns to static and stretched out minutes. He winks when he says, _Old man's losing his sight,_  and laughs.

She's not pleased with him, Harry Hart, just showing up at her home and he knows it. But he offers his assistance and she takes it that he means charity, _I don't want your help_ , and she slams the door in his face. Eggsy isn't too pleased with that but he just looks tired, mostly, and pulls her into a hug and holds her close and she closes her eyes and pretends he’s small still, small enough to fit in her lap, and he says, _Mum, I love him. He loves me. That's all it is, yeah?_

So the next time Eggsy is gone and she's looking at her phone, waiting for that call, and Harry stops by in the evening, she invites him in. She makes tea as he sits at the table and watches Daisy stack blocks or knock over dolls or point at the phone and babble  _Eggy Eggy Eggy._ She grins and bears it and sits across from the man that keeps finding his way back into her life and--she buries the thought as soon as it comes but it’s there all the same--the man keeps taking her boys further and further away.

Grins and bears it, like she always has, and asks Harry Hart how his day has been.

It becomes a regular thing--when Eggsy is gone, Harry comes by after she’s off work and he’s finished up at the shop. He always waits for Michelle to invite him in, says hello to Daisy, nods and says _yes please, thank you_  when she offers tea. He sits in the chair at the table, hands folded in his lap, watching Daisy play while Michelle bustles around the kitchen. 

It’s not every day he comes. Usually the day Eggsy has left, once or twice in between, depending on how long Eggsy’s gone for, and once more after Eggsy is home. Those days, he doesn’t step inside. Just wants to make sure she’s okay. That Eggsy stopped by the house before he went off to Stanhope Mews for a hot shower and sleep.

It continues on this way and it becomes something like a friendship, something strained but amicable, because all she can do is look at Harry Hart, with the angry scar across his temple and his gentle manner and how he smiles at Daisy when she hands him a toy, and try to reconcile him, the man who changed everything for her, with the man who Eggsy loves.

One day, she realizes she is sweeping the floor and pulling out the tea kettle before Harry Hart even shows up at her door. She realizes she’s started to look forward to this, to Harry being there for her, even if it’s in awkward silence, reassuring her that someone else is looking out for Eggsy where she can’t. Where she failed to.

Harry never says that. He tells her she raised a wonderful son, someone smart and loyal and compassionate. She smiles and says, _He’s just like Lee._  And Harry smiles back.

And one day, another day not too long after she tells Harry the next time Eggsy comes over for dinner that he should come too and Harry smiles wide and says he’d absolutely love to, one day she looks at Harry and all she sees is a man who loves her son and she realizes how thankful she is that Eggsy gets something that beautiful in his life.

She is his mum first, after all.


	3. "keep your eyes on me" (hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A random drabble inspired by a post: If you want me to have a complete breakdown just show me an otp where one says “keep your eyes on me” when they’re trying to calm the other.

They are tied up, weapons removed, stripped of their jackets and glasses, seated to face each other. Harry has been here before. It’s bad, of course it is, but he can survive. It won’t be pleasant and recovery will be long but he’s done this before. His pain tolerance is incredibly high. So is Eggsy’s. 

But Eggsy is hyperventilating. It’s a panic attack. It’s too much like life before Kingsman. He’s utterly helpless, he can’t fight back, he’s always been able to defend himself. He needs to be able to fight back to feel in control. 

He’s not in control and it’s terrifying him. 

And Harry is trying to talk him through it, telling him it’s alright, it will be okay. They will get out. _Look at me, Eggsy. Deep breaths. In and out. Good boy, just keep breathing like that._

But then they hear foot steps. It’s dark in there except for the spotlights over them. Harry sees Eggsy’s eyes go wide, wild with terror. He struggles against the ropes, he grunts and there’s a choked out sob, a whimper. 

_I won’t say a word, Harry. I won’t I won’t._ He’s almost screaming it. Harry wants to tell him doesn’t need to say that, he doesn’t have to promise him that. But he knows Eggsy’s saying it to remind himself, because he’s been here before too but it’s different. Eggsy had to live in it where Harry could walk away and Harry can only understand that objectively, in terms of damage and bruises and resentment that comes out in built up walls and a ruthlessness against the world, but he doesn't know how it leaves a darkness in someone, a fear that is constantly hanging around them, a sickness at the back of their throats, how the heart changes and repairs itself but is never the same and how the anticipation of it is always simmering beneath the surface, and it’s not enough. 

Eggsy knows once it starts, he can't come back until it's done. Harry knows this, too.

Harry nods and he stops himself from pulling against the ropes, his body’s instinct to go to Eggsy when he sounds so wrecked and so broken and _scared_ and he just looks at Eggsy as they come in, have their tools ready and enclose on Eggsy, repeating _keep your eyes on me, darling, keep your eyes on me_.


	4. "oh dear" (merlahad)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for hepcatliz for Merlahad and private detective AU.

Harry knows by the way the door bangs against the wall when Merlin enters the room that he is not very pleased. Harry regards him with a slight bemused expression from over his cup of tea while leafing through the morning paper.

The sharp thwack of a file hitting the desk has much more intense and lively purpose than Harry thought possible of an inanimate object. 

“We have another complaint,” Merlin explains when Harry doesn’t ask.

Harry blinks up at Merlin. “Oh dear.”

“Harry,” Merlin says curtly, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses, “we have talked about this. This is our business. You are making it incredibly difficult to _do_ business.”

“Well, it can’t be helped.” Harry shrugs, indifferent and unbothered, and sets his mug down. “You do know I have very little patience.”

“You are fifty years old and have yet to learn any semblance of will power.” Merlin sits down in his chair with all the rigidity of a man who has never enjoyed anything. Harry shuffles out his paper and moves to hide behind it, hoping this conversation is done but, as always, Merlin has other plans and demands that Harry follow along. “Will there ever be a day that you will act like a proper adult?”

“I take offence to that,” Harry says with mock indignation. “And my knees would protest otherwise.”

“You attacked our clients target.”

“Yes,” Harry says, slowly like he’s not sure what Merlin is trying to imply. And maybe he’s not. 

Merlin cocks an eyebrow. 

“It wasn’t _that_ bad–”

“You slapped him in the middle hotel lobby.”

Harry stares flatly at him. “Yes, well. Just a slap.” Harry sniffs. “Man up, I say.”

“Amongst other things.”

Merlin leans forward, hands folded together on the table in front of him, eyebrows raised in a direct challenge for Harry to say anything that would further damn him, knowing full well Harry would not resist such a confrontation. The fucking sly bugger. 

“Do you care to explain why?”

“Would it make a difference in how angry you are?” When Merlin purses his lips rather severely into a hard thine line, Harry sits up from his comfortable slouch with an aggravated huff. “Oh, _alright_. You know these cases bore me.”

“You are paid to care,” Merlin reminds him.

“Not enough, it seems,” Harry answers drolly. “I have been following that dreadful man for a week. Do you know our client is pregnant?”

Merlin narrows his eyes at him. “Yes. Mrs. Reese’s predicament is quite evident, Harry.”

Harry snorts, waving his hand dismissively at the file before him that bears their clients name. “And where is her dearly beloved? Off throwing his money at high end escorts when he should be at home with his wife… doing what ever it is people do to prepare for babies.” Harry’s face twists up with disgust, remembering the seemingly revolving door of Mr. Reese’s hotel room. “Absolutely revolting behaviour.”

“She didn’t want you to hurt him,” Merlin says with an exasperated groan. “She just wanted more information to make a case for the divorce.”

“Oh, please,” Harry says defensively with a disgruntled noise of prim indignation. “I’m sure if I talk to her, she would thank me. Might even send me a fruit basket. I do so like the ones dipped in chocolate.”

If Merlin ever had the audacity to actually let himself be ruffled by anything, Harry is sure he would be gaping. 

“You are unbelievable,” Merlin says after a short while.

Harry stands from the chair with an exaggerated flourish, brushing his hands down the front of his suit. Then he leans forward, hands planted flat on the desk, to capture Merlin’s mouth against his, moaning a little a breathlessly when Merlin’s tongue darts on instinct out to taste. Harry smiles at how well trained he is, even when he’s at his most annoyed, he can’t resist. 

Maybe Harry makes a rather undignified sound when Merlin shifts, hand coming up to caress his jaw, sucking Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth but he wouldn’t admit that readily. 

“Thank you, darling,” Harry says with a coy smile when he pulls away, humming contentedly. “This is your fault, just so you are aware.”

Though his face is a bit flushed and his eyes gone dark with yearning, Merlin still manages to look up at Harry with a glare. Harry’s still pleasantly surprised that Merlin can remain so endearing even while look positively unimpressed. One of the many things Harry appreciates of his partner. 

“And how is that?”

“You knew I was absolutely godawful when we started this whole venture.”

Merlin’s mouth turns down in a considering frown before he nods in hesitant agreement, sighing one of those familiar long-suffering sighs as Harry walks out of the room with a chuckle. 


	5. what's in a name (hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a post that asked: anyone ever notice how softly Harry pronounces Eggsy’s name?

Maybe people usually say it really harshly, like they're trying to get it all out in one breath, like the word leaves a sour taste in their mouth. Spit it out, guttural _g_ 's and _s_ 's hissed through clenched teeth.

Others draw it out, sharp elongated _ee--_ 's at the end, nasally and high pitched, grating across nerves and through his head, like they're dragging it across pavement. Through dirt and under water and into mud. 

Some say it _Eggy_. On purpose. Missing vital parts, overlooking and ignoring it because it completes him and they don't think he deserves it; it knocks him down one further, not a kick to the back but a cut beneath the skin, thousands of them. Not good enough for me to say all those nasty little letters. Eggy, dripping off their tongues like yolk, flicking a piece of dirt off the tip. 

But Harry--Harry says it soft and sure. He makes the _s_ sound like a prayer, a mellow, content hum. It doesn't shatter through his teeth like a force but comes with a conscience effort to say it elegantly. He says it with practice and with time and like his name deserves to be spoken at a tempo and tone that befits royalty. Eggsy--two _g_ 's like a roll of the lips, tasting sweets on his tongue; an _s_ that comes without the disapproving click, comes tender with accolades and praise; the _y_ like he doesn't want the name to end, not a whistle between teeth but gradual and like a calm wind. All together, it's a faint murmur of a name, like a song. Fingers strumming across strings, a sweet reverberation as it moves like tremors and tendrils through him, soothing all the old quiet hurts. 

It sounds beautiful, lovely, otherworldly, the way Harry says it. _Eggsy, my dear boy_ , all tenderhearted and thoughtful, like he was the one who was fortunate enough to be saying it. Like Eggsy wasn't the lucky one to hear Harry say it, day after day--in the morning, against sleep-warm skin, as he wakes first; as he calls out from the kitchen to the hall, asking some mundane question; when they sit with their legs tangled under Harry's desk working on their reports; when Eggsy tries valiantly to not to fall asleep spread out across Harry's chest early in the evening, a grace, a litany, a word holding all his promises, whispered. Always whispered, like Harry could never bear say it any other way, meant just for the two of them. 


	6. surprises (eggsy; implied hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small drabble written after the first KTGC teaser aired; inspired by the butterflies.

Of all the bad habits Eggsy wants to kick, this one is the worst.

He’s seem to have become fond of the penchant for self-inflicted misery so he’s found himself back in Harry’s bathroom far too many times than we wants to admit. Usually midday, when the sun is golden and shining through the small window--just like the last time Eggsy was able to stand face to face with the man. See him alive.

How quickly he has burned that memory into his mind. It’s probably why he keeps coming back here--he’s scared to lose it. He knows it’s not good for him--his mom kept a picture of his dad tacked over the kitchen sink for six years and it took just as long for her to not cry when she looked at it--but it’s a magnetic pull that brings him, his tired feet dragging him through Harry’s front door, to stand here, in the spot where he told Harry such cruel things and where  he had lost his chance to apologize.

Eggsy looks around at the butterflies, perfectly pinned, in their dazzling colours, behind their sheets of glass. So many of them. Eggsy never got to ask why. It weirded him out a bit at first, sure, but they seemed comforting now. He counted them, sometimes. Hundreds of them. Maybe one day, he’d bring a book in and try figure out which ones they are. Maybe, one day, when that kind of thing won’t leave him shaking and feeling hollowed out with his grief and regret.

Sometimes, he talks to Harry. Goes over what he wished he could say, what he wished he would have said that day. He feels ridiculous as he does it but it calms him down, almost, staring at Harry’s things, how none of it had moved. Like Harry could be coming home any minute.

“Fuck,” Eggsy sighs, leaning back against the wall, letting his head roll back.

He bumps against a frame--a lone pure white butterfly--and curses silently, hoping he didn’t crack it. The frame has shifted slightly to the left and he turns slowly to fix it, careful not disturb any other frames. He doesn’t want to change anything. If he does, then Harry can’t come back, things will be different and he _can’t_ come back if Eggsy lets go--

There is a soft, clicking whirr that seems to fill the small room. Eggsy stills, attuned to safety’s clicking off and grenade pins being pulled and pens clips being flicked--but this isn’t those things.

When he turns, the glass from multiple frames have swung open, as if on hinges, revealing their pinned creatures beneath. Creatures that have begun to twitch and flicker in their trappings. He watches, startled and awestruck, as the come free of the pins, their delicate wings fluttering as drop from the frames, floating on the updraft of their descent before they begin to move.

One by one, they fall--then more and more, until the entire bathroom, in it’s golden daylight, is filled with dozens of gem-toned butterflies, vivid golds and bright reds and veined indigos. It’s a wonder, stunningly beautiful in a way Eggsy has never seen before. For a few minutes, he can do nothing but stare, impressed and shocked.

He reaches out a hand in time for a larger one to land on his outstretched finger. He brings it closer to inspect and there--the tiniest of mechanisms at the joint of the wing, the glint of metal from a ray of light. Miniature robots, all lovingly assembled and built and put on display. Eggsy tries to imagine Harry sitting at a work table, putting them together, picking out the colours he would choose, staying up late until it was completed--letting it fly about the room, finding it’s wings, pride in his gentle smile.

“Full of surprises, hey, Harry?” Eggsy murmurs, smiling faintly.

The butterfly beats its wings as if in an answer and joins the fluttering group twirling above his head. Eggsy watches it for a moment before he lets out a soft, choked-off laugh, his surprise and admiration turning to the heartache that always came back around, that always came back when it includes Harry.

He doesn’t even try to catch himself, keep himself standing, as his legs shake, give out underneath him. He couldn’t have, suddenly weak from the unbearable ache in his chest, even if he had tried.


	7. "what do you see?" (eggsy, harry, poppy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AnnaofAza sort of prompted me to write Eggsy hallucinating Harry in KTGC.

He hears the birds outside the open kitchen window, the far-off sounds of traffic along Gloucester Road. He’s reaching for his cup of tea when Harry says something.

“Your napkin, Eggsy.”

“Oh. Right, sorry.” He takes the napkin from his plate and lays it down on his lap. “Like that?”

Harry nods approvingly, going back to his food. Eggsy smiles, a rush of warmth coming over him. Eggsy reaches for his tea again. He doesn’t like green tea and Harry doesn’t have honey in the house. It’s overly bitter, too strong, on his tongue; he’s surprised Harry can make such an awful pot of tea but says nothing. 

“You’re taking me to the shop today, yeah?”

“Unless you have other plans.”

Eggsy leans forward on his elbows, his knee bouncing under the table. “Sure I could find some time in my busy schedule.”

Harry turns the corner of his paper down and gives Eggsy a tired smile. And that’s–Eggsy places his hand on his lap, rubs his hands along his jeans. The kitchen window is closed and he can’t hear the birds. The table is cleared. He feels full and he can still taste the bitterness from the tea.

“Get washed up, Eggsy. We will leave in a few minutes.”

Eggsy’s standing in the foyer. He’s wearing his shoes and Harry doesn’t like that, he knows that. He must have forgot. He toes them off, sets them next to Harry’s oxfords, taking a minute to rearrange them side by side neatly, admiring what they look like alongside each other. He thinks he likes it. He peers around the corner to look at Harry, maybe finishing up the dishes, but he’s gone. The lights are off and the dining room is dark. He must have gone upstairs.

The front door slams shut behind him. He walks to the bathroom, the door already open. It’s too bright in the room (wasn’t it dark when he got here–Harry lead him up the path to the black door and the jingle of his keys and the hallway light and Harry hanging his umbrella on a hook but–) and Eggsy groans, lifts a hand to cover his eyes. The sun makes his skin transparent, red and orange. Around the light-limed fingers, he sees the butterflies. He lowers his hands, blinks at them, confused. They seem–backwards. But not. 

Harry’s standing by the sink. 

“Shit, Harry,” Eggsy gasps. “I thought you were upstairs–”

“Can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been about trying to repay him?”

Harry’s in his suit. Eggsy can’t see his face, the sunlight around him like a burst of gold and white, casting his face in shadows. 

“Harry, I don’t–”

“It was a blank, Eggsy. It was a fucking blank.”

The window is open. He hears cicadas and leaves rustling in the wind and footsteps outside. Someone is outside. 

There’s something… wrong. With Harry. Eggsy steps forward but he doesn’t seem to move any further into the room. 

“You–you’ve said this to me,” Eggsy whispers. “You’ve said this before.”

“What did you do to me? I had no control.”

Something drips from Harry’s chin to the floor; viscous and dark red and the room smells of… cherry wood and expensive gin. The room should be dark, he remembers it being dark–but this room is blinding. Eggsy reaches out for him but Harry’s too far away and it's… wrong. Like Harry’s not really in the room. 

“What are you–”

“What do you see?” Harry asks. 

“What?”

“I see a young man with potential.”

Eggsy stumbles back against the wall, shaking his head.

“A young man who is loyal.”

Eggsy is yelling, the sound of it ragged and hoarse in the room, and there is no sound at all. He’s not yelling; he’s looking in on the empty bathroom, from Harry’s chair, a drink he can’t stomach in his hands. It tastes bitter. 

“What do you see?” Harry asks again. 

The glass frames filled with butterflies rattle against the wall.

“Nothing,” Eggsy rasps, his eyes shut tight. 

“I had no control,” Harry stutters and he sounds so, so wrong, like there’s an undercurrent of whirring and clicks and metal scraping against metal in his voice. 

The glass frames shatter and Eggsy falls to the floor, covering his head. The butterflies fall from their perches, fluttering helplessly to the floor before lifting once again. The front door slams and it sounds a lot like a gunshot.

He feels the blood spray on his face, and he’s shaking, shaking. When he looks up, Harry is standing above him, blood pooling at his feet, the butterflies crowded around his face, their wings beating erratically, frantically. 

The blood drips steadily. Harry does not sway where he stands but he flickers, like wings in sunlight. 

“What do you see?”

–

Poppy waves her hand dismissively and the attendant nods, pressing a button on control panel before her. There’s mechanical grinding as air lock vents are shut, hoses hissing to emptiness, the satisfying pop of valves closing. 

“It needs some work,” Poppy muses. She looks at the young man curled up on the floor, perfectly still, his face hidden in his arms. If it weren’t for the frantic jumping lines of his heart monitor print out, one could believe he was merely sleeping. “He needs some work.”

The attendant nods again, looking at her feet. 

Poppy sighs and clicks her fingernail against her bared teeth. “We will try again tomorrow, I suppose. I could really go for a burger.”

“And of the subject?” 

Poppy pauses at the door, her head tilted to the side. “Leave him in there. He might like to see something familiar when he wakes up.”

The attendant looks back at the padded room through the glass barrier, the broken frames of glass scattered around him, the mirror reflecting the room back and the butterflies, their transmission already cut off, now laying lifeless on the floor with him, as Poppy shuts the door behind her.


	8. "looking not half bad" (hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> confuundo prompted: HOW BOUT the first time harry sees eggsy in a kingsman suit? eggsy doesn't notice he's there at first

Harry doesn’t really see him, though, his eyes drifting over Eggsy–not recognizing him, actually, at first. He just looks that much different, Harry more attuned to the gaudy jackets and loud sneakers.

But then there’s the laugh that Harry would recognize anywhere, Eggsy turning slightly so Harry can see more of him, the best sweep of his golden hair, the generous cut of the pinstripe suit that Harry always knew would look stunning on him–and, god, was he right. 

Eggsy is a vision in his suit. Refined, gorgeous, the pinstripes accentuating his broad chest, the soft plumpness of his muscular thighs, his outrageously trim waist. Harry is momentarily left speechless. 

But Eggsy exudes this boyishness, some kind of otherworldly wonder. While most men his age would either look uncomfortable or carry themselves with superiority, both extremely unbecoming, Eggsy manages to be charming, lovely, without the suit wearing him. 

Harry can’t be surprised by how well Eggsy looks in the it, how naturally he wears it, like he was born for this–he knew from the start Eggsy would look the part in a tailored. But it still doesn’t stop him from being astounded by how truly beautiful he looks. 

So, there’s Harry, straight up ogling Eggsy and absolutely stunned by how amazing he looks, and Eggsy turns to finally see him there and he gets this massive grin on his face. His cheeks are pinked–from the champagne in his hands? From laughing?–and he approaches Harry at a leisurely pace, a hand tucked into his trouser pockets, brushing down his tie with the confidence of a man who knows how good he looks. 

“Looking not half bad, hey, Harry?” Eggsy does a little spin on his heel for Harry, laughing, managing to not spill a drop of champagne. 

“Not at all,” Harry answers quietly, letting his gaze move over Eggsy’s body, languishing in all the ways it clings to him, just tight enough around the arms, curved over his legs, collar sitting along his flushed throat. “The man makes the suit, after all.”

“Nah,” Eggsy says, shaking his head, “Couple grand on anyone would make ‘em look like royalty.”

No one could ever look as stunning as you, Harry thinks, a bit deliriously, and only has his decades of training to thank for not blurting that mortifying gem of a thought out loud. He watches Eggsy tug at the hem of his jacket, a finger running along the bottom of his belt as he looks over his shoulder, and Harry is certain the look on his face is absolutely lecherous. 

God almighty, it’s been ages since he’s been properly taken to bed. He knows he could teach Eggsy how to do it well. Could teach him all sorts of things, his clever hands, his pink pouty mouth, the delicate jump in his throat as he swallows, a movement Harry wants to trace with his lips. 

And with that thought, Harry promptly decides he is completely buggered and this was going to be an excruciatingly long night.


	9. "just a bad day" (hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested Harry cheering Eggsy up after a bad day.

Harry could usually tell within a few minutes what kind of mood Eggsy is in after completing a mission. It’s become common practice for them to talk as soon as Eggsy is secured within the jet, a much needed reminder for both they are alive, safe and well. 

The good days, Eggsy talks at length, with extravagant, and maybe just a bit elaborated, detail of how he managed to take down an entire compound of mercenaries, vaulted himself over structures and buildings and cars, all breathless excitement, the thrill of a mission well done infectious even over the comms

The bad days, there is tense silence and Harry knowing better than to try get something out of Eggsy he’s not willing to share, short uncomplicated answers that define Eggsy’s bitterness and disappointment, the same excuse of exhaustion making him say goodbye sooner than wanted. 

Harry is prepared for these days. The days when Eggsy comes home, withdrawn and sullen, Harry keeps his distance while making himself available. He doesn’t hover but he stands at the landing on the stairs, leaning against the banister, arms folded or at his sides. He will watch Eggsy slowly undress, won’t comment on how Eggsy dumps his shoes and jacket on the bench instead of putting them away, and will only approach him when Eggsy gives him some indication, a fleeting weary look that never meets his eye and a soft unhappy sound, a hand across his face that rubs at his already reddened skin, a mumbled apology, _sorry, just a bad day_.

Harry will nod in acknowledgement and he won’t say much; he’s said it already. He knows about bad days, horrible days, days that make you feel less human, more machine. He’s told all this to Eggsy and Eggsy knows. But sometimes those bad days are only survived by this: by preservation, by building a wall, by hiding within yourself, somewhere the best parts of you–the parts that make you kind and loving and joyous–cannot be harmed, corrupted, stained. Harry does not ask how many times Eggsy has had to do this in his life, how many times he’s had to find his own way out, how many times he had to convince himself not to stay. He thinks he knows, in a way. 

So, Harry makes Eggsy tea and toast. Leads him upstairs to the bedroom. Sits him on the bed and tells him, gently, to eat. He will run the bath, warm enough that Eggsy can sink comfortably up to his chin and stay there. Slowly, slowly, like peeling back paper, bits of Eggsy shine through. Usually by now, he’s standing at the bathroom door, avoiding Harry’s direct gaze. But Harry will step towards him, a hand out in support. And Eggsy will take it, hand around Harry’s forearm, letting his hand slip up past his elbow, around his bicep to lean against Harry. Eggsy will undress himself, sometimes, but there are times when he is so tired that he can’t seem to. Harry doesn’t mind, letting Eggsy shift and turn into him, head buried into Harry’s shoulder, slumping forward, as Harry unbuttons his shirt, undoes his trousers, sits him on a stool to take off his socks.

He will help Eggsy into the bath, settle him in, run his fingers across his brow, his cheek, smile even when Eggsy isn’t looking and leave the room. He cleans up the plate and cup, takes them downstairs to the kitchen. He locks the doors, sets the alarms. Puts JB’s food bowl up, tries to take him out one last time for a pee, and is only successful most of the time. He shuts off the lights, checks the house one last time–old habit–and makes his way back upstairs. The light will still be on to the bathroom and Harry will go towards it like a promise, a beacon. 

Usually, by now, Eggsy is more alert, more responsive. He will be running a cloth down his body or wringing it out into the water, dipping his head back to wet his hair, eyes closed, soft gentle breaths making his chest rise and fall. There are times when Eggsy still hasn’t moved, staring at the wall, exactly how Harry left him, and that’s when Harry will run the cloth over Eggsy, dip his head back with his hands framed across Eggsy’s face. But it doesn’t get that bad very often. Harry is thankful for that. Those days, it takes the longest for Eggsy to come back to himself, and Harry misses him, even more so when he has to look right at him and know he’s not so far away, but just as unreachable. 

Harry will help Eggsy out, give him a towel from the shelf, drain the tub. Eggsy will sometimes give him a small smile, a hand at the back of his neck, a reassurance that he’s here and Harry will smile back. Usually, slowly, by now, Harry can see reminders of the man he loves most: the ever-present gleam to his eyes, the casual slant to his shoulders that begets his boyishness, his vibrancy. Harry will fold the discarded suit, set the jacket and trousers aside to be dry-cleaned, fetch a pair of underwear, cotton bottoms and a well-worn shirt for Eggsy to put on. 

JB will be sitting on Eggsy’s pillow, panting from the long walk up the stairs, watching them expectantly. Eggsy will crawl into the bed, curled up around the pug, fingers wrapping gently around the floppy ears, chin resting on top of JB’s wrinkled head. Harry will turn down his side of the bed, draw the curtains closed, change into his own pyjamas. 

By the time he gets into his side of the bed, Eggsy turns over, winding his arms around Harry, pulling him close. And Harry goes, willingly. Eggsy will nuzzle against his neck and Harry will turn to face him, smelling of warmth and soap and himself, a familiar intoxicating thing that Harry never tires of. Harry’s hands will thread together at Eggsy’s waist, their legs tangled together, Eggsy drawing mindless patterns on Harry’s shoulder blades through his shirt. They will stay like this as long as they need, Eggsy breathing steadily against him; sometimes, Eggsy will push himself up to press a series of brief furtive kisses against his mouth before settling back into the space he’s made against Harry’s side. Other times, they won’t move. 

Harry has learned to let Eggsy lead. 

When Eggsy snuffles, mumbles unheard words, against his neck, his limbs tensing for a moment, fingers flexing, Harry knows Eggsy is back. He fidgets, moves and shifts around Harry, as if embarrassed, upset. Harry will place a hand on the small of his back, stilling him, the other resting on his cheek so Eggsy will look at him. His eyes will be drowsy, cheeks pink, skin soft and warm. Harry will never want to let him go, knowing he will have to, and thinking the world unnecessarily cruel for it. 

_Thanks, Harry._

_Of course, darling._

Eggsy doesn’t always need praise, compliments, reassurance. He has the confidence to know that he is good at what he does, the self-assurance to believe that this is what he will always do. And though Harry can give all those things, in droves and without hesitation, he has come to learn the things Eggsy does need: a quiet presence, a simple understanding, a reminder of what waits for him when he is ready.  



	10. "you lied to me" (eggsy, roxy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thisbirdhadflown prompted: Roxy + Eggsy, "You lied to me."

Roxy is in the kitchen, discussing the latest biometrics development proposed at the last round table with Ector, when the door actually slams open, causing both her and Ector to startle. And Eggsy is standing in the threshold of the door, looking viciously determined, his cheeks flushed, presumably having run the length of the mansion to get here. 

Ector raises his eyebrows in concern and Roxy gives him a bewildered, questioning look, which he seems to ignore. 

Instead, he points an accusing finger at Roxy, crying out, “Roxanne Morton!” before stalking the length of the room and coming to stand before her, where she was sitting, drinking a cup of tea. 

Ector quietly rises from his seat, nodding his goodbye at Roxy and slipping from the room. Eggsy has the decency to wait until the door shuts before he tosses a folder on the table and crosses his arms across his chest. 

“You lied to me.”

“Pardon?”

Eggsy gestures to the folder he had thrown down before her. Tentatively, she reaches out for it, flipping the corner up with her thumb and letting it fall back down, her blood running cold. 

“Eggsy, you _didn’t_ ,” she says in a small voice. 

“Oh, I sure did.” And there’s only one way to describe Eggsy’s grin: absolutely shit-eating pleased and completely self-satisfied. “Trying to tell me you never even knew their names. Oh, you’re good, Rox, but you ain’t _that_  good.”

“It was a phase! A short, tragic, terribly misguided phase,” Roxy says defensively before leaning forward to hiss, “And I would _thank you_  not to go blabbing your mouth to everyone about it.”

Somehow, Eggsy’s smile becomes more confident, more devilish; this is not boding well for her. “Well, what’s in it for me?”

Roxy narrows her eyes at him. “Are you– _blackmailing_ me?”

Eggsy gasps with obvious exaggeration, slapping a hand to his chest. Fantastic; he is picking up unnecessary dramatics from Harry again. “Are you accusing me of extortion? Rox, that’s _slander_.”

“Hardly. You used the Kingsman servers to go digging for personal secrets,” Roxy reminds him. 

“Ain’t the worst I’ve done with it,” Eggsy says in a huff, waving his hand dismissively. “You’re just trying to deflect.”

Roxy sighs, running her hands over her hair, tugging nervously at her pony tail. No one was ever supposed to know. Her mum wasn’t even allowed to mention it. 

“Some friend you are.”

Eggsy shrugs a shoulder. “I’m your best mate and you love me and you know it.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Payback, dear Rox. Sweet, sweet payback.”

Roxy can’t help but let a faint smile tug at her lips; she was still rather proud of her own clever application of the ubiquitous whoopee cushion. Crude? Yes. Childish? Absolutely. Though she had to admit that the jar of glitter she dumped in it before hand was rather inspired. Maybe doing it at a round table meeting was not the wisest but they were all prone to making mistakes, at one time or another. To err is human, is it not?

“Only physical copy, this one,” Eggsy says, pointing at the folder. “Sure I can suck up to Merlin to have him erase any trace of it from the Internet. If you’re willing to pay.”

“And the price?”

Eggsy considers this for a moment before answering, “You fill out my requisition forms for the next month.”

“Steep price,” Roxy comments. “I could just teach you how to do it so Morgana doesn’t have to get after you each time.”

“Ah-ah!” Eggsy wags a finger at her and she has a distant desire to bend it back. “Not what I proposed.”

Roxy spends a minute chewing her bottom lip, eyeing up the folder as if was going to fly open on its own accord and hurl its contents around the entire mansion, before sighing in defeat. “Oh, alright.”

Eggsy claps his hands together. “Good working with you, love, as always.”

“You are incorrigible,” Roxy mutters, though the bitterness she employs has no heart. When Eggsy leans down to peck a kiss against her cheek, she playfully slaps his chest with the back of her hand, bringing on a slight, muffled _oof._ “You do realize this means I’m coming for you.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Eggsy says with a wink. “Drinks still, then? Tonight?”

“As usual,” Roxy says. 

Eggsy blows her a kiss, which she rolls her eyes at, laughing despite herself as he saunters from the room. She waits a moment longer, fingers drumming anxiously at the table, before snatching up the folder and throwing it open. Staring up at her is own her twenty-year old visage, sweaty-faced and grinning uncontrollably, delight evident even years later, arms wrapped around the waists of Liam Payne and Harry Styles, when she had managed to meet them backstage at the X Factor Live tour. She had been telling the truth: it _was_  a phase. She thought she had deleted all the photos that had been posted, even deleting her fan page on Facebook, but like it’s always been said: nothing truly ever leaves the Internet. She can’t believe Eggsy found the one picture, probably from some defunct fan site that never even had her name tagged under the picture. She had braces, for God’s sake. No one should recognize her. 

Roxy can’t help but smile, though. Once she burns this cursed image, the game is on. 


	11. "wanna dance?" (hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alethaii prompted Hartwin and "Wanna dance?" + "Teach me how to play?"

Stepping into his sitting room after a long with a much needed scotch, the last thing Harry expects is to run into the back of his sofa, painfully ramming his knee into a post. He manages not to spill the drink but his tired, aching bones protest with a sharp angry throb up and down his leg. 

“What’s all this?” Harry asks through gritted teeth, glaring down at the couch as if it moved itself. 

Eggsy holds up a hand to silence Harry, not breaking his rhythm, not even turning to look at him, his concentration on the TV before him, where there is an animated character doing the exact same as Eggsy, blaring out a vaguely familiar song that Harry might know, maybe. Eggsy’s doing, what appears to Harry, some kind of mutilated, one-man quickstep though with a lot less moving around the room and more arm waving than needed. Harry wouldn’t exactly call it dancing, more like a crude ode to it. Whatever it was, it was strangely captivating, mostly because of Eggsy’s intent on doing it with as much vigorous elation and determination as possible. 

“Sorry,” Eggsy answers with a huff a minute later, hands on hips and only panting slightly, a dopey grin on his face. He waves his hand absently and the TV goes to a loading screen, replaced by mindless upbeat elevator music. “I needed top scores on Just Dance. Setting a record.” 

Harry quirks an eyebrow, stares pointedly at the furniture that’s all been shoved to the walls.

“Oh, that.” Eggsy laughs. He drags his hand across his face, wiping away the delicate sheen of sweat that had built up on his forehead, above his mouth. Harry takes a slow drink of his scotch to hide the twitching of his lips. “Weren’t enough room with the chairs and all that. Had to push them out of the way.”

“What for?”

“Ryan, Jamal and Rox are coming over for some drinks, little bit of friendly competition.” Eggsy winks at Harry, as if letting him in on a big secret, but his home had become the agreed upon gathering place for Eggsy’s friends once he had moved in and it’s not like Harry was complaining, not at all; he knew it was incredibly important to maintain friendships outside of work and home, and he knows Eggsy will thrive with that kind of companionship.

But god help him if it all didn’t make him feel so _old_.

“And what’s the occasion?” Harry finally maneuvers his way into the room–Eggsy was kind enough to leave a small gap between the sofa and the wall to shimmy through–and comes to stand at Eggsy’s side, looking at the screen as if deciphering code. 

Eggsy shrugs. “I dunno, just for fun. Hadn’t seen the boys in awhile. Rox has been in Yemen for the past two weeks.” He seems to consider something before he says, “Jamal’s a bit sweet on Rox, I think. Keeps asking after her. Don’t know how to break it to him she ain’t exactly into blokes. Ryan’s caught on but–well, who knows, really, with them two.”

Harry nods, suddenly feeling even more tired, trying to keep up. He gestures at the TV. “I still don’t know what this is for.”

“Kinect. Dance Central. It’s got a little camera on it, tracks your moves.” Eggsy points at a slim black bar situated beneath the TV stand, a faint blue light emanating from it. It all seems rather sinister, somewhat suspect, and Harry’s about to ask after the security where he remembers its _just a bloody game_. Good god, how old is he, really?

Eggsy’s still explaining his minor existential crisis: “So, you follow what’s going on up on the telly, copy the moves–and victory.” Eggsy’s waves his arms as if doing magic, his grin part delighted, part sheepish.

“Ah,” Harry says because, well, it’s all rather simple and he doesn’t have much else in the way of commentary. 

Or, so he tells himself. 

Eggsy isn’t a spy for _nothing_.

“Wanna dance?” Eggsy offers with the airs of a man who knows exactly what he’s after: mainly, making Harry admit that there are some things he does not know and that he is most definitely not good at. 

“Me?” Harry answers coolly. “No. I’ll pass on that offer.” His dancing expertise was limited to ballrooms and galas, sweeping foxtrots and timed waltzes. 

“Aw, come on, Harry. It’s not that hard.” Eggsy has a hand on Harry’s hip, thumb through a belt loop, trying to tug him closer. Harry can see the flush on his cheeks, down his neck, his golden skin almost shimmering in the dim lights. Briefly, Harry stops paying attention to anything Eggsy is saying. “Besides, you can dance against someone else. Try beat their score.”

Harry doesn’t budge from his spot but he does give Eggsy an impressed look. “Appealing to my competitive side.”

“Maybe. Is it working?”

There are some things Eggsy did that made Harry feel old. And it’s not often he felt that. He was just vain and proud enough to know he was still in incredibly good shape for a man his age, wasn’t terribly behind on popular culture that he could keep up without stumbling his way through a conversation, and wholly secured with the knowledge that the class of gentleman transcended age and time. 

But the way with Eggsy approached every newly presented opportunity, brimming to the edges with excitement and boldness and little in the way of hesitation, made Harry realize how from all the years he has lived, and even with all the breadth of his varied experience, it had only made him entirely complacent with his life. He had made himself invisible limits that he never thought were there until he was faced them. And usually, due to years of living in his own head and, yes, harbouring his own inherent insecurities, he walked away from it. 

Eggsy had a peculiar way of making Harry re-evaluate what he had previously taken as undisputed certainty. He could take down a bar of goons in a pub midday without hesitation–but being asked to dance in his own home, to music he found aggravating, with his much younger lover? Well, he thinks it would make anyone hesitate. 

Wouldn’t it?

But the way Eggsy looks at him, hopeful and encouraging, is like a balm to his frankly fussy ways. It was at times exhilarating and, honestly, distinctly overwhelming. 

“Oh, alright,” Harry concedes, an exaggerated roll of his eyes to punctuate his tone. But he loosens his tie, unclipping his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves as he approaches the TV. “Teach me how to play.”

“ _Yes_ , Harry.”

The grin on Eggsy’s face will make his bruised pride and aching knees in the morning completely worth it. 


	12. "you heard me. take. it. off." (hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> queerwatsons and trekkiepirate both requested Hartwin and "You head me. Take. It. Off."

Harry doesn’t even glance up from his stack of papers, partially absorbed for the past half-hour in an article about budget reform that he’s not even remotely interested in. He’d caught himself staring down the middle distance at least twice since he started this endeavour, his eyes glassing over in vehement protest of such a mind-numbing tedium. 

But he really didn’t need to look up when he sensed Eggsy’s presence in the doorway: he knew exactly what was waiting to accost him. 

“You heard me. Take. It. Off.” It wasn’t the first time tonight Harry had said it. 

“Maybe you should take it off _for_ me.”

He can practically _feel_ the wink, like a palpable movement that disturbs the air in the room. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“No,” Harry answers, mostly bored of this exchange this late in the evening. 

“It’s kinda the point, y'know.”

Harry glances up, not moving his head, to catch Eggsy’s look of exasperation. And Eggsy has the audacity to grin when he notices Harry looking, mouth curling up in the corner with satisfaction. Harry huffs, rolling back his shoulders to release the tension and says—again, not for the first time that night—"I am _not_  eating that ghastly thing off of you. It’s tacky and crude. I don’t know where it’s been.“

As it was, Eggsy had spent the better part of the evening prancing about the house in a candy necklace thong, wiggling his hips in Harry’s direction and howling with laughter at Harry’s pinched, peevish expression. 

“It’s been on my dick for the past hour, is where,” Eggsy states, a mix of unabashed impudence and matter-of-fact mirth that’s a bit disconcerting. “And it’s not like you ever complained about putting _that_ in your mouth.”

Harry sighs and fully looks at Eggsy and he instantly regrets it. Eggsy uses Harry’s brief lapse of better judgement to thrust his hips forward, causing the gaudy garment to jiggle suggestively, stretching across his hips and abdomen, exposing bits of flushed skin beneath. It _could_ be arousing—if it wasn’t literally pastel candies on string. 

Harry gives Eggsy a flat, disapproving stare which doesn’t seem to deter him in the slightest. 

“It’s hardly the same.”

“I don’t see how it ain’t.”

“I refuse to have sex with you until that—“ Harry waves his hand vaguely, “— _thing_ is in the rubbish bin.”

Eggsy frowns. “God, you’re absolutely no fun.” Then he folds his arms across his chest, tilting his chin up in mulish defiance. “I ain’t taking it off.”

“Neither am I.”

Eggsy shrugs, pursing his lips, eyebrows lifting; a fine imitation of indifference. “Fine.”

“Fine.” And Harry looks back to his papers, a renewed drive in his work. 

Several minutes of modest silence passes before Eggsy speaks up. 

“I’ve got _all_ night.”

“As have I.”

Harry manages to finish reading a few more paragraphs before he becomes intensely aware of Eggsy’s obviously uncomfortable shuffling, the tiny huffs of indignation. He hides his own smug grin by running his hand over his mouth, pretending to organize his papers for a moment. 

“I can’t imagine it’s very comfortable,” Harry says eventually.

“No,” Eggsy admits quickly, “It ain’t.” He seems to be considering something, bouncing on his feet, a contradiction of emotions on his face before he drops his arms in defeat. “Oh, fuckin’ bloody hell—fine! You win.” Eggsy hooks his thumb into the right side strap and _finally_ begins to pull the atrocious thing off; he even manages to make it look graceful, even a bit seductive, bending nimbly at the waist to maneuver past his knees, the strap stretching obscenely across his other thigh. Harry really doesn’t mind this, actually—maybe he could have taken them off. But he wasn’t willing to concede first. 

Eggsy lets the thong hang from his thumb briefly before flinging them across the room to Harry’s trash can, where they hit with a rather victorious rattle. At least to Harry’s ears. 

Harry leans back in his chair, pressing the tips of his fingers together and bringing his index fingers to rest against his lips. He won’t even deny he is ogling. “I believe we both win, actually.”

Eggsy is confused for a moment before he looks down at himself, as if just realizing he’s now completely naked. He chews on his bottom lip before he puts his hands on his hips, mumbling, “You don’t gotta be so smug about it.”

This time, Harry grins unrepentantly. “Well, now, where’s the fun in that?”


	13. "no one needs to know." (hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompted: Hartwin, "No one needs to know."
> 
> Slightly NSFW, since the word cock is mentioned a few times.

To say that Harry didn’t expect the rest of the night to turn out this be wouldn’t exactly be a lie. But neither would it be truth. He was a highly trained spy, after all—he had spent the better part of his life not just perfecting his hand-to-hand combat, his marksmanship, adapting readily and quickly to each and every new development in weapons, technology and gadgets that Merlin tossed his way. But he had cultivated a skill much more useful: reading people.

And Eggsy Unwin, for all his bravado and rough charm, read like an open book.

So, after a few badly mixed martini’s and a savoured glass of scotch, to have Eggsy saunter across the room, a glazed, heady look in his eyes and deposit himself gracefully in Harry’s lap, arms coming to rest atop his shoulders, clever fingers twisting at the fine curls at the nape of his neck, is both a surprise and not.

Another thing: while Harry may lie to many people, he rarely lies to himself. And he is all too honest with himself in thinking, rather abruptly, that of all the things that could come to pass from this twenty-four hours together, this isn’t the _worst_ thing that could happen. Which is promptly followed by the jarring and vicious recognition that he is also twenty-five years Eggsy’s senior, his mentor and his superior within Kingsman and that this was not so much crossing as charging over so many acceptable boundaries that it was making him dizzy. 

Or was it the scotch; or the warm brush of Eggsy’s soft lips against his cheek, trailing down his jaw? Maybe it was all three. 

Had he thought of it, of taking Eggsy to his bed, of having him come undone beneath him, with such tender attentions, of tasting every part of him, mapping out the freckles scattered across his shoulders with his fingertips, of caressing the inside of his outrageous thighs, of coaxing and pulling and dragging the most pretty sounds from his soft mouth? Well, yes. More than he should readily admit; even as far back as that first night in the tailor shop, when he first offered this world to a young man with a wry smirk and a bold manner that managed to arrest him wholly, far more he was ready for.

But he is also much more than a salivating, hot-blooded old lech controlled by his extraordinarily lewd thoughts and was fully aware that this was highly inappropriate on so many levels, he would need a spreadsheet to fully document it all. So while the thoroughly gorgeous image of Eggsy spread out across his bedsheets kept him company many a night, he was also smart enough not to act on any of those feelings, however debilitating in their allure they may be.

Which is why having Eggsy on him is proving to be a problem. 

He wants this and he knows he should not. Body, yes; mind, absolutely not. It’s a peculiar place to find one’s self in.

And maybe Eggsy senses this, Harry’s uncertainty warring between how maddening the warm weight of Eggsy’s body against his is and not even fully able to comprehend all the horrible things that could happen to them both if he lets this go on, because while Eggsy does not stop his current determination to lick and kiss down Harry’s neck, he murmurs against his collarbone, “No one needs to know.”

Harry’s breath hitches in his chest, the familiar insistent need coiling tightly in the pit of his stomach. His cock twitches hopefully in his trousers and he feels completely betrayed.

“Eggsy,” Harry croaks—and he meant to sound much more composed than this. He clears his throat and says, “Eggsy, we can’t.”

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Eggsy answers quickly. There are so many different points of contact between them—Eggsy’s lips on the shell of his ear, his thighs squeezing Harry’s hips, his elbows bumping against Harry’s forearm—that he’s not entirely conscious of it, delayed by drink and astonishment and doubt. It seems to trip and stumble through him, coming in overwhelming bursts of nerves and heat and stuttered breath, that he doesn’t even notice that Eggsy’s undoing the buttons of his shirt until the pads of Eggsy’s fingers brush across his chest. “That we ain’t supposed to. It’s against the rules or some shit.”

“It is,” Harry answers feebly and gasps when Eggsy reaches inside his shirt, rubs his thumb across his nipple. “ _Christ_.”

Eggsy chuckles, a potent sound shoots straight to Harry’s core, makes him squirm involuntarily. “Yeah, know that. Is it cause I’m your proposal—or is it cause of something else?”

“That’s—“ Harry swallows thickly, staring up at Eggsy who is looking down at him with a hunger that makes something in him grow hot, insatiable, “—that’s one of the reasons, yes. Among many.”

“Hmm.” Eggsy’s nodding, but in a lazy, unbothered way, as he fiddles with the last few buttons, tugging at Harry’s already wrinkled shirt so it pulls free of his trousers, baring his stomach. “Sounds serious. Get me kicked out?” Harry must nod because Eggsy shrugs indifferently. “Don’t care ‘bout any of that, anyway.”

Harry sucks his bottom lip between his teeth when Eggsy spreads his hand across his lower abdomen, palm kneading into the soft skin, finger grazing across his navel. Eggsy smiles so beautifully and it takes every ounce of self-control for Harry not to reach up, pull Eggsy towards him, capture that gorgeous mouth with his, kiss him until the smile fades and he’s left with nothing but pretty little sounds. 

“That much is obvious.”

“I mean it, Harry,” Eggsy says, his voice gone genuine, serious; he sounds almost sober in his conviction, how he does not waver. He looks directly at Harry. “No one’s gotta know. Just between you and me. Won’t tell a soul if you won’t.”

And who would know? His glasses, turned off hours ago and set aside on his second martini, would not give any recording. His own house security system is uncrackable even by Merlin and if the myriad of camera’s revealed anything damning, he could be rid of the footage without anyone knowing. He wouldn’t have to tell anyone. Neither of them would. What happens tonight could stay right here, between them—and Harry has every assurance that it will be glorious and that Eggsy will make it so.

But there’s still the nagging thought: is this really worth it? By some strange, unfortunate chance that someone does find out… is he willing to throw out everything he has worked for, that everything Eggsy has worked towards, just for this? 

He’s considering it, for fuck’s sake.

“Fuck,” Eggsy breathes, his gaze drifting from Harry’s face down his body to where his hand is still pressed against Harry. “You don’t really know how much I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.” Eggsy’s mumbling now, his words almost incoherent, but it’s not from the liquor–he is in control of himself in every aspect, his exacting ministrations, the steady stroke of his hand across Harry’s body, and every word he utters makes Harry fall further into his own depravity, recalling every exquisitely detailed fantasy he had harboured about Eggsy in the past. “You’re—something else, you know that, Harry? Fucking unbelievable, you are. Wanna show you just how fucking unbelievable you are.”

Eggsy hasn’t even done much, a few teasing caresses, barely there kisses, murmured drunken words alluding to something much more, but Harry is growing achingly hard, hips rolling up on their own accord to seek more—more heat, more friction, more of Eggsy. He tentatively reaches out, letting his hand come to rest on Eggsy’s waist and when he rocks up again, he keeps Eggsy steady so that his cock rubs against Eggsy’s—half-hard in his own jeans—and, oh, the beautiful look on Eggsy’s face, all the guile and daring he had a moment before gone with the wide eyes, the shameless look of ardent desire, his own reactionary jerk of his hips downwards.

There’s a question on Eggsy’s face, evident in the way his cheeks have gone flush, his hand stilling in it’s movement across Harry’s waistband. _Is this really okay?_ And Harry knows that this is the moment when he can walk away from this and they can brush their hands clean of it: it will be a minor faux pas, an uncomfortable but humorous secret to share, and whatever the next day brings will not be hampered by what they are about to do.

But here, with Eggsy willing and _asking_ this of him, asking for this _from_  him, Harry cannot say no. So, in some ways, he really is a salivating, hot-blooded old lech controlled by his extraordinarily lewd thoughts. And he can’t really find it within him to care.

Sometimes, one must indulge.

Harry’s past considering it. His body has decided for him, good sense and logic be fucking damned. He is taking this boy to bed and, against all his better judgement, he will ravage him. And, in many ways, it will be completely worth it.

“Then show me,” Harry says, leaning up so he can finally take Eggsy’s mouth, can finally kiss him like he has been thinking about for months, trying to keep his affections restrained, his desires hidden. And the small moan Eggsy gives him, the way he goes pliant and eager, his lips parting, tongue darting out to run along Harry’s mouth—it’s infinitely better than anything he ever could have imagined. He never imagined the bitter taste of gin and something far sweeter on Eggsy’s tongue, Eggsy’s one hand trembling against his stomach, the other coming to cup the side of Harry’s face, the devastating, staggering rush of tenderness and craving for all of Eggsy that crowds out every corner of him, making him all at once light-headed and remarkably grounded in the moment.

And he tells himself, adamantly, that Eggsy is right: no one needs to know.


	14. "it looks lovely!" (eggsy, daisy; hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy does Daisy's hair. Sometimes, so does Harry.

Imagine Eggsy watching YouTube videos on doing little girls hair so on his days off when he has Daisy over and she has school or they have plans to go somewhere, he can do her hair. Of course, it starts with badly parted pigtails and lopsided ponytails and he won’t even touch a curling iron for the first few weeks, visions of burnt fingers and scalps and tears from both sides if he dared to.

Daisy sitting patiently as he perfects [French braids](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/50/01/09/500109c798d6b52cc81407add5619c0f.jpg) and [plaits](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/14/15/4c/14154c109c0761ca3a0a25e218845477.jpg) and [ballerina buns](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/3c/87/e9/3c87e955d8abe33862ac4d4e2df42fbc.jpg). Daisy giving him encouragement, motivation, in her sweet little voice, as he repeats the same fifteen second segment because his fingers have to go six different directions at once to get this [waterfall braid](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/48/91/01/4891011c0d6b234f41c78cfa6224050b.jpg) just right and he can take down a room full of mercenaries with just an umbrella (and one that’s not all decked out with fancy gadgets–thanks, Harry) but he can’t seem to get this damn braid to cooperate.

He amasses a collection of all kinds of decorated hair clips and multi-coloured hair bows and headbands with hearts on them. They have a special drawer in the bathroom vanity where Daisy meticulously keeps them organized so they don’t get wrecked. He once finds himself inside the Claire’s on Oxford Street, browsing through the wall of hair ties and clips, debating whether Daisy would want the rainbow headband or the glittery purple one. Naturally, he ends up with both.

They even spend an afternoon sitting out on the back patio in the summer working on the seemingly impossible [hair bow ](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/22/0b/5b/220b5bd3d86f5762288589b7402a5758.jpg)_[(with curls, Eggsy, please and thanks!)](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/22/0b/5b/220b5bd3d86f5762288589b7402a5758.jpg) _ after Daisy saw a girl in her class with one and begged Eggsy to try until he relented (and Eggsy knows that his mum can do all these hairstyles, and more, in less time and with more polish, but it’s become something of a tradition for him and Daisy; and for how much he misses of her life because he’s working, missing dance recitals and school concerts and even a birthday or two, he thinks that this can be their tradition, their routine). The attempt ended in fewer tears than Eggsy anticipated, an entire can of hairspray depleted, but a very nice bow atop Daisy’s head. And, really, her excited squeal and bearhug around his neck was well worth it.

And better yet, on a weekend when Daisy is staying with him, and he’s called into HQ for something last minute and he has to leave before Daisy can wake up, when he walks into the dining room after getting home to see Daisy sitting cross-legged on the table holding a little hand mirror up in front of her, while Harry talks to her in a soothing voice, probably telling her one of his convoluted versions of a fairy tale or–more likely and worse yet–all about his frankly creepy butterfly collection, as he–well, _tries_ to braid her hair. It’s a good attempt, especially since Eggsy’s certain this is the first time Harry has tried to braid anyone’s hair, let alone the hair of a chatty, wiggly preschooler. 

Harry’s movements are stilted, self-conscious, but there’s a determination that comes through, his tablet propped up beside him as he watches the same videos Eggsy watched when he was first learning to do Daisy’s hair.

Daisy, in her tiny vibrant voice that seems to carry throughout the whole house, telling Harry happily, “You’re doing a great job, Harry! It looks so nice! You’re really good at doing my hair!”

And Harry answering, with a small smile, “Why, thank you, Daisy. I’m glad you like it.”

“Course I do! It looks lovely!” 

And maybe Harry catches sight of Eggsy watching them from the door and smiles wider despite himself; Eggsy feels a bit sheepish, having lingered back and not letting them know he was there. But he didn’t want to ruin the moment, the two of them getting along so well without Eggsy mediating between them; sometimes Harry was still hesitant, overly cautious around Daisy when he didn’t need to be. Sometimes, Harry wasn’t the best at interacting with her–but he was making an effort. Sometimes, that’s all it took. It’s all that was needed.

At that particular moment, Eggsy doesn’t think he could be any happier or any more in love with either of them.


	15. "hey, i'm with you, okay? always." (merlahad)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from hepcatliz for Merlahad and "Hey, I'm with you, okay? Always." Young Merlahad, whee! My favourite!

There’s a crackle of static over the communication line and while the tech department had said it was normal, to-be expected levels of interference, it still makes Merlin’s heart skip several beats from the quick-fire panic that rises in him. It settles just as quick as it came, only to ramp up again when he hear’s Galahad’s broken, choppy voice: he doesn’t catch what Harry says but it doesn’t stop him from leaning forward hastily, jabbing his thumb on the intercom button.

They are separated by thousands of miles, a four-second lag and the inability to see each other.

“Hey,” Merlin says, louder and slower than needed but he wants to make sure Harry can hear him, understand him, “I’m with you, okay? Always.”

There’s a disgruntled huff, a mechanical click. “I don’t quite trust these things,” comes Harry’s voice from the other end, faded and echoing. “They’re _glasses_ , for God’s sake. Do you know how many glasses I’ve broken in my lifetime?”

“Please don’t break them,” Merlin responds with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “they are very expensive.”

He can almost hear the way Harry roll’s his eyes on the other end. “Oh, like there isn’t hundreds of spares just waiting at the shop. I’ve seen the way Lamorak works.“

“Galahad,” Merlin says in warning. 

“Yes, yes, too right. Carry on, shall we?” There’s the unmistakeable sound of a clip being loaded and then static once again. Merlin’s thumb still hovers over the intercom button. “You will be right here?“

"Right here,” Merlin murmurs. He hopes it’s reassuring, despite the tightness in his voice.

There’s a bit longer pause, lag and consideration, before Harry responds, quiet and rather fond that makes Merlin’s chest feel tight, “Good.”

It had only been a few months since they had started—whatever this was between them. Harry was everything Merlin thought he never wanted in a partner: contentious for the mere sake of it, caustic in a wholly disarming way, relentlessly ambitious and while not lacking propriety, he seemed to not employ it as much as he should. But there was a grace, an enchanting kind of magic about him that drew Merlin in like a magnet, that could not be denied. There was layers to him, waiting to be uncovered, like taking off a suit: what was beneath all the pomp and acerbic wit was fascinating, lovely and shockingly kind—even if Harry tried to act otherwise.

Merlin came into Kingman’s fold six months before Harry stepped foot on the estate grounds for the Galahad trials; and for the life of him, he cannot remember what any of that time was like before Harry swept into Merlin’s life with charm and boyish eagerness, the determination to have people know his name, and completely captivated Merlin, without so much as a warning.

“I can sing you Scottish pub songs in the background to let you know I haven’t left,” Merlin offers.

"I will break them, I swear I will.” But Harry’s laughing, the breathless sound of it crackling over the speakers. ”But I do know how you like to show off.“

Merlin sits back, slightly more at ease than he was a moment before. "I think you may have me confused with yourself.”

—

The tech department had told Merlin a few weeks ago they were working on making the video recording device implanted within the glasses stream video live back to the home terminal. He had told this to Harry, with no hidden excitement, one morning while they drank coffee in the living room of his flat. Harry had made a face at him from his perch on the window seat, gangly legs pulled to his chest, his steaming mug resting atop his knees. 

“I dare say it’s a ways off,” Harry had remarked before taking a sip of his coffee, his eyes still half-lidded and drowsy; he was never much of an early riser and took particular offence to Merlin’s regularly cheerful moods.

Merlin had been thoroughly distracted most of that morning by the sleepy pink flush to Harry’s cheeks and bare chest, the soft unruly hair that was nothing more than candy-floss and gorgeous curls around his ears, at the nape of his neck. In the golden sun-lit glow coming through the window, Harry was framed by it and seemed almost untouchable. There were times when, even when Harry was right beside him, he felt like he existed entirely separate from the world that Merlin and everyone else seemed to occupy. There were times where Merlin was convinced he would spend the rest of his life knowing Harry and resigned to watching him inflict his graceful destruction from an impassable boundary.

But there were times that Harry seemed much more—not human, because he always was, with his habitual vanity and disregard of social good graces and inclination to turn every meeting controversial, every idle conversation argumentative. But he was vulnerable, tender almost, in the early mornings and in the late hours of the night that they managed to share, as if he needed some liminal space to shed the pretences he had armoured himself with. And despite it all, no matter how far Harry was, whether he was halfway across the world or sitting across the round table from Merlin during a mission debrief, Merlin had the enduring, almost mulish need to keep him safe, at any cost. He wonders what Harry would say to this, if he told him the truth: Harry had always particularly obstinate in going his own, right from day one.

“It may be sooner than you think,” Merlin had answered and he had leant forward, resting on his elbows, to press a kiss to the side of Harry’s neck. “At least I hope. So I can stop worrying about you all the time.”

And Harry was laughing again, turning to meet Merlin for a kiss, murmuring, “What would you do with all your time if you didn’t worry about me?”

And, right at this moment, Merlin doesn’t have a good answer because it’s true: but he thinks at least seeing that Harry is alive, moving, still being unerringly bothersome, would ease some of the worry. 

But he doesn’t want to say this, to make the moment melancholy, or bittersweet, ruin it with his overthinking and misplaced worry. So, he kisses Harry instead and takes the moment for what it is.


	16. "i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified" (eggsy, hartwin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> glorioussandwichwhispers asked for "I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified."

It’s an awkward balancing act, juggling what he’s carrying and maneuvering his arm to press his thumb to the scan pad, then to jab in the passcode before it times out while not spilling anything, but he manages, just like he does every other day.

“Morning, Harry,” Eggsy calls as he enters the room. There is the mechanical whir of the door locking behind him; almost a welcome sound nowadays, the toll for the start of his favourite part of the day. As he bustles around the room, setting down his to-go cup of coffee, the paper bag containing his bagel (with too much cream cheese, just how he likes it and he’s sure Harry would greatly disapprove of), letting the file folders he had tucked underneath his elbow drop unceremoniously to the table with a relieved sigh. “You’re looking good today. Very lively.”

There isn’t an answer–but it’s not like he expects one anymore. The first week, he had. Had talked himself hoarse in hopes it would magically cause Harry’s eyes to open, his fingers aching with cramps from holding onto the bed rail so tightly his knuckles had gone white, red indents in the palms of his hands where his nails had dug in. He realized now, looking at how serene and sedated Harry was, how absurd that thought had been–but he had kind of hoped they’d be given just one more miracle. Apparently, he had expected far too much. 

“Not laughing today, hey? Yeah, I guess my jokes ain’t as funny as they used to be.” Eggsy blows out his cheeks as he drops into the chair, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “S'alright. You still listen well enough.”

He’s greeted by a soft beep from the various machines hooked up to Harry’s lifeless form: the things that he was told kept him alive, kept his breathing regular, monitored his brain activity. Things that were explained to him as stable and promising and left at that. He’s stopped staring at all the screens as if they held the answers to the questions he was too nervous to ask; they gave away just as much as the doctors or Merlin or Harry himself. 

“Just got back from Montenegro.” He gives an appreciative whistle through his teeth. “Gonna have to go back sometime when I’m not gunning after some warlord.” He gives Harry a mirthful look, pressing his shoulders back into the plush chair, trying not to wince at the strained muscles, the headache threatening to build at the back of his head. “Bet you’ve been there loads, though. Posh bastard like you. Seems like the kind of fancy place you’d like to go. You’ll have to come with next I go. Show me around, yeah?”

There’s a brief, arresting moment where he pictures this: Harry set against the backdrop of sand beaches and red tiled roof houses, staring up into a bright sun in a cloudless sky, the Adriatic sea glistening out beyond them, deep blue and endless. He has a fierce hope that one day they can get there, that he can see Harry smile again.

He clears his throat briskly, busies himself with shrugging off his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair as he keeps talking, “Anyway, clean mission. Finished it up fine, though came out with a nice shiner. My fault, though. Wasn’t watching where I was running and clocked myself on a beam. Hurt like a bitch, thought I’d actually broken my face. Had to ice it for hours to take down the swelling. I can see fine now, though, so don’t worry. But now I gotta look at your ugly gob.”

“God, I really hope you can’t hear any of this.” Eggsy turns to his coffee, unfolding the paper bag to reach inside for the bagel, careful to grab it so he doesn’t smear any of the cream cheese on his fingers or sleeve. “Or maybe you won’t remember. Can’t make myself shut up when I’m here. But it’s nice talking to you, y'know? Even if you’re not really all here. Didn’t get much a chance to do it before–” Eggsy swallows, an audible click in his throat as he does. “Well, I brought my mission report to fill out, to pass the time. Thought I could do that and keep you company.”

The next few hours pass as much the same as all the other visits had: Eggsy complaining loudly about what he thought was too many questions on debrief reports (“Was your motivation appropriate and practical for the tactical use of flash-bangs? Fucking for real? It’s a fuckin’  _flash-bang,_ what else would I use it for?”), a new word Daisy had been parroting back to him (“Now I gotta watch my mouth but Mum’s just as bad she just won’t admit it.”), what he and Roxy had done on their day off (“It’s so lame, but we both fell asleep on my mum’s couch watching The Bachelor and don’t you go telling no one about that or Rox’ll have my neck.”) and where he was in the backlog of his rewatch of Harry’s mission files (“I can see why Merlin’s got no hair left–even I ain’t as mad as you to dive out of Westminister into the Thames.”). 

He drinks the coffee even after it’s gone cold, still not managing to eat without having to brush what seems like a pound of crumbs from his lap, and keeps his eye on the vitals holding steady on Harry’s monitor. Occasionally, he leans forward to adjust a wire that has shifted a few centimetres over or to tuck the already perfect blankets more snugly around Harry’s waist. He lets his fingers graze for a moment over Harry’s knuckles, his skin still soft and warmth between the tape and tubes in the middle of the back of his hand and the heart rate monitor clip on his finger. Sometimes, he thinks he feels a twitch, the movement of fingers coming awake after a long slumber, and every time he looks with held breath and frantic hope that this time– _this time_ , he would–

But Harry never did. 

Eggsy sits back down in the chair, running his hands through his hair, still not able to take his eyes off of Harry. His hair was getting long; longer than the last time he had been in a coma, when Eggsy had not knocked before he entered and couldn’t help the grin breaking wide across his face at Harry’s civilized indignation and the outrageous combed back hair. 

On the days when Freya was doing her vital checks while Eggsy was finishing his reports in Harry’s silent company, he would help her sit him up, wash and comb back his damp hair, wipe down his arms and legs, his neck and chest with a damp cloth. He even convinced her once to let him shave Harry; joked how Harry wouldn’t be able to stand the beard. But he had to use a safety razor and his hands had trembled the entire time, so the job was sloppy, beads of blood pearling on the delicate skin from the nicks on his pinked irritated cheeks. It was the feeling of having Harry this close and still have it not be what he’s wanted that made him shaky, careless; the slight jump of Harry’s pulse in his neck where Eggsy rested his other hand, the delicate slope of his jaw as Eggsy tilted his chin upwards to run the razor over the tender underside of his jaw, all made him oddly distracted and left reeling. He had let his thumb press gently into the dip in Harry’s clavicle when he was finished, searching for the faint, reassuring echo of a heartbeat. 

“Harry.” And Eggsy wasn’t sure anymore if he was saying it to Harry as a reminder or as a plea, but it always came out sounding thin, reedy, desperate. He shifts forward in his chair until he’s sitting on the edge, held up by his trembling legs, gently taking up Harry’s hand in his so as not to disturb any of the wires and tubes. “Harry, I’m gonna tell you something and you gotta promise not to use it against me, alright? Because I know how dumb it sounds, okay? It’s–it’s not like I even really know you.” The heart monitor continues its steady trill and after a quiet moment of indecision, Eggsy continues, “And you barely know me and, really, the most time we’ve ever spent together, you’ve been a fucking coma… but I have to tell you, yeah?”

He stops to swallow thickly; he realizes he’s massaging the knuckles on Harry’s fingers, moving between gripping them and cradling them in his palms. He thinks about the weight of them, the constant inertia of Harry, always laying in this room, and this room that always stays the same, the same familiar sounds of the equipment and the same familiar antiseptic smell and the same familiar _Harry_. How when he comes here it exists separate from the rest of his life. How greatly he has come to rely on its grim, devastating consistency and how sorely he wants to walk in the door one day and have none of it ever be the same, as what he’s come to expect. For something, _anything_ , to change for them both. To let him know he wasn’t always to come back here and feel like the world was moving on without Harry. Making _him_  move on without Harry. 

“I need you to know it before it seriously eats me up. Can’t stand it much longer, to tell the truth,” Eggsy mutters, starting to laugh, trailing into a sigh. “And if you remember this _when_ , ‘cause you are, Harry, you are. When you wake up–if you don’t… I don’t know, feel the same or whatever, you don’t have to say nothing. I’ll get it.”

Eggsy waits, like he expects Harry to turn his head, to nod, to give him a reassuring smile and permission to continue. To squeeze his hand back just as hard as Eggsy is now. 

“Harry… I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.” He says it in a rush, get it all out at once, before it gets caught in his throat and his confidence completely slips from him. “Not just because you’re–well, _you_.” And he almost says, _and what would you want with someone like me?_  But Harry’s been the pretty much the only person of his caliber, his status, to look at him as an equal and he’s the only person that could make Eggsy actually believe it. 

Roxy had told him not too long after he had been knighted that he needs to stop belittling himself, doubting his place within Kingsman and to stop acting as if he was an imposter in his new life. And he knows she’s right–even Harry’s harsh words the day he failed the final test had been because Harry had believed in his worth so intensely that it held gravity in everything they did, everything they said. He sees that now, far too late perhap, and he can’t quite explain how much more it hurts because of it. 

“It’s cause I’ve known it for awhile now and I never wanted to admit it to myself even–” Now, the prospect of what he’s about to say hovers over him, sinks into him, and his head falls forward, part weariness and part inability to look directly at Harry as he admits his greatest, unspoken fear: “And what… what if you don’t wake up?”

There’s the sudden pressure of prickling hot tears behind his eyes, the constricting throb at the back of his throat as he tries to swallow down the urge to cry. He dares to look up at Harry, still the same as he has been these past few long, trying months: broad chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, the stable beep of the machines gathered around him, unmoving, unchanging. And he almost loses all composure not to lay his head down on the bed, press his cheek against the stretchy wool blanket, against Harry’s prone body, and weep. 

“I love you and I feel like a fucking idiot for it,” Eggsy says on a shaky exhale. He pulls one of his hands out from under Harry’s, digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “I’ve fucking fallen in love with you and you’re in a damn coma. See what you do to me?” He tries to laugh, because he does feel ridiculous underneath all the misery, knows how foolish he is, but it doesn’t sound right, the forced lilt of it, and it just makes the wrenching ache in his chest worsen. “I know I’m an idiot, okay? You don’t gotta tell me that. But it’s not even about whether you feel the same or not anymore. I don’t care if you do. I just want you to wake up.”

Eggsy knows his hands are shaking. Stupidly, he hopes it’s something Harry can feel, something that maybe he will remember, even if he never recalls the words that made Eggsy hold on so tightly. He hopes that he will know and he will suddenly wake and he will stop this torrent of unwanted disquiet and heartache that seems to have followed Eggsy wherever he went, to deepen and expand and sink it’s claws in each time he could not convince himself to stay away from this room, just for a day. 

“Harry, please. You gotta wake up and tell me–tell me I’m an idiot.”

He has to press the back of his hand to his eyes, the hiccup of a cut-off cry shuddering out from within him. He shuts his eyes to stop the stinging at the corners of his eyes, the insistent press of heartache welling up and pushing out against him, making his head throb dully, his skin feel too hot and crowded, a numbness like static down the back of his neck, his arms, his head. 

They don’t know when he’ll wake up. If he ever will. Eggsy tries not to think on it. Sometimes, it’s all he can think about. 

He sits there for a long time, staring at the floor, his one hand still wrapped around Harry’s. Rubbing his thumb up and down Harry’s middle finger, over the knuckles, tracing the edges of his nail. Over and over, until even this becomes too much for him to live with. 

“It’s okay, Harry,” Eggsy murmurs, as if Harry’s silence was his apology. He finally pulls his hand back to his lap, flexing it against his leg. He wipes roughly at his face, rubbing the away the gritty feeling from his eyes. “Next time, though, right? Not like you’re going anywhere.” Eggsy nods to himself, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth; then, with a sudden conviction, he says, “Well, neither am I, yeah?”

He cleans up his empty cup and bag, throwing them in the rubbish bin beside Harry’s bed. He fixes the flowers in the vase–carnations he had brought a few days ago. He makes a mental note that they will need water tomorrow. He avoids looking directly at Harry’s face, as if even now it will betray the man and show something Eggsy is not yet ready to face. He goes about his usual ministrations: fixing the blanket yet again, running his hands over the wires and tubes just to check though there is never anything wrong, to brush his hand back across Harry’s forehead, letting his fingers sink for one selfish minute into Harry’s hair. 

Without thinking to long on it, he bends forward, steadying himself against the bed with his other hand, a presses a chaste kiss to the middle of Harry’s forehead before he straightens back up, surprised at himself. His lips tingle with the warmth of the kiss. He takes his finished reports off the table, grabbing his jacket from the chair and walks quickly to the door. 

“See you tomorrow, Harry,” Eggsy says to the quiet room before he lets the door fall shut behind him. 


	17. gin, not vodka (harry, eggsy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CONTAINS KTGC TRAILER SPOILERS!** Notes at end.

It had been a long time since Eggsy had made himself a martini. Ordered them, sure; it was his drink of choice when one was called for on a mission. Sometimes, when he went on his own, though he usually went for a regular pint in the pub. 

He never drank them at home. He had tried, recalling with such miserable clarity Harry telling him the precise measurements, reminding him to chill the glass and counting the seconds on his watch as Eggsy stirred, how he had laughed and couldn't stop when Harry told him to stare at the unopened bottle of vermouth. After that night, no matter how many times he tried his hand at it, it never tasted quite as good, the gin too bitter to even swallow, the half-empty glass left on the counter, a notable declaration of how his life now had been cleanly separated from that night. 

 So when Eggsy had complained, half-joking, about the shite excuse for a martini back in Kentucky, Harry had smiled knowingly at him and said, "Well, I'm certain you know how to make a good one." 

 He almost said no. But he couldn't really explain the months of failed attempts, wasted gin, that he had left the water rings  to stain into the wood of the coffee table because he couldn't bear to rid himself of those either. Instead, he smiled back, even with his heart in his throat and made him and Harry a martini. 

 Harry had watched attentively, his expression betraying nothing but interest, as Eggsy fetched the ice from the bucket, measured the gin and set out two glasses. When he had finished, a fair bit of nerves handing Harry the glass, he had raised his own to his lips but waited for Harry to take the first sip. 

"Yes, Eggsy," Harry had told him, that barely there smile making him seem less severe than he had been since he had left his cell. Much more like the man Eggsy had known six months before, sitting in his home office and telling Eggsy everything he could look forward to once he was a Kingsman, like it was a sure thing. "Just perfect, as usual." 

Eggsy had smiled in thanks, tried to curve his lips down to hide his overwhelming relief and giddy happiness, at this moment and at Harry being alive and how good things still seemed to happen to them both, and took a drink. 

And it wasn't really about the martini or the fact that he had done it as Harry had taught him: it was about the fact that he was standing here at all, drinking martinis _with_ Harry. That Harry was alive to watch him make this martini, to give a wordless gesture when Eggsy missed what Harry deemed was a crucial step, to tip his glass towards Eggsy in a toast, to clink the lip of his glass against Eggsy's. 

It was the best martini Eggsy had had in months.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off [these released stills](http://notbrogues.tumblr.com/post/164763772832/colinfirthaddicted-colin-firth-addicted).


	18. all things lovely and good (eggsy/tilde)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy and Tilde discuss their marriage.

Eggsy’s curled up on the settee--and he was to _call_ it a settee, not a couch or sofa--in their private sitting room in the east wing of Drottningholm, his phone nearly at his nose as a computerized voice spouted random Swedish phrases at him to memorize, when Tilde sweeps into the room with a silver tray of tea and biscuits. Eggsy glances up at her, smiling in greeting, as she sits by his feet, setting the tray before her on the table and begins pouring the tea without a word. Not unusual for either of them; taking afternoon tea together, but more importantly alone, away from any staff from palace or Kingsman alike, had become a much needed routine for the both of them. It had gotten to the point where it didn’t need to be arranged or decided on, just something that they did, when they were both around, their many hello’s spoken in touches and looks and smiles.

“Ta, love,” Eggsy says when she passes him a teacup and a plate of homemade Florentine’s, ginger nuts and shortbread, which he balances on his knees, teacup in his free hand. He bites into a ginger nut, scrunches up his face at his phone and, after a prolonged moment of indecision, groans dejectedly. “I’m shit at this, just so you know. Never gonna learn it. Can’t even roll my R’s proper.”

“I have faith in you.” Tilde sits back with her own cup of tea, pats Eggsy’s leg and smiles. “Put that away. Take a minute to sit with your wife.”

Eggsy grins up at her. He sets the phone down beside the tray of tea, readjusts his position so that they are sitting side by side. She takes a Florentine from the plate now resting on his thigh, inspects it before biting off half of it and chewing.

“You know,” Tilde says thoughtfully after a few quiet minutes, “I would not mind if you decided to take on another lover.”  


Eggsy chokes on his half-chewed shortbread, thumping his fist to his chest to dislodge a piece. “ _What_?”

“What?” Tilde says simply, taking a sip of tea.   


Eggsy’s staring wide-eyed at her, not entirely sure he’s heard correctly. “I don’t get it.”  


“You seem very close with many people at the agency,” Tilde says. “Harry, Hamish, Roxy... that annoying American who keeps sending you cat videos at three in the morning. Tequila, was it?”  


He thought he’d turned off notifications for Tequila’s texts. Eggsy’s mouth snaps shut and he feels his face start to grow warm, the telltale prickle of an embarrassed flush working it’s way across his cheeks. “Rox and I are just mates,” he explains, rather defensively. Though he really doesn’t have an explanation for anyone else.

Tilde glances over at him, her eyes bright. “Oh,” she says as a smile spread over her lips. “Lucky for me, then.” She sets her cup down and turns to face him, her hands folded in her lap. “The others then?”

Eggsy nods, feels incredibly idiotic, then shakes his head, feeling even more so and then shrugs in defeat. He can’t seem to stop his head from bobbing up and down, to the side, because he can’t seem to find a way to talk about this without completely cocking the whole thing up. Yeah, he was somewhat of an insatiable flirt, he always had been and he had foolishly thought since Tilde never said anything, she really didn’t mind the occasional banter (which, when he thought on it too long made him feel rather nauseous, hence why he was just going to try his best to ignore it all and hope it just--went away). He was sure all the other times that had erred on the side of a little more than flirtatious had been well hidden. Easily brushed off as being over-friendly and over-familiar.

Eggsy can still feel a bit of the biscuit still stuck in his throat. He elects to stare at his teacup instead of at Tilde, it’s contents suddenly very intriguing. “It’s not--well, it’s not like I’ve-- _fuck_. I’m sorry, Tilde.”

She doesn’t even pause in her laughter. “What for? Oh, Eggsy, my love,” she says softly when Eggsy barely looks at her, plucking the plate and cup from Eggsy’s lap and taking both of his hands in hers, bringing them up to her lips. “Is it something you would want?”

He’s almost scared to look at her because--yeah, it is something he’d probably want. Maybe. And he had felt awful for even thinking it, considering it, idle daydreams like having coffee with Merlin that wasn’t the bitter sludge from the tech department and somewhere other than Merlin’s hovel of computer screens and stacked files and binders and reports; going out for dinner with Harry, dressed to the nines in their best suits, some place with white tablecloths and candles burning low and a bottle of wine because he knows Harry would want to be disgustingly romantic about it; even the odd time when Tequila had managed to get him on the phone, suddenly thinking he’d like to be back in that dusty Kentucky bar, playing darts and drinking bourbon and gin and sharing their outrageous spy stories late into the night, sitting a little closer than necessary, knees knocking together when they got to laughing hard.

He thought he was being selfish, cruel to Tilde for harbouring all these little crushes, so he kept it to himself. Thought they would all go away on their own. 

“I don’t know,” Eggsy says eventually and Tilde sighs, kisses the backs of his hands. “Tilde, you know I love you. You know I’m fucking mad for you.”

“Yes. You did agree to marry me,” Tilde says with a fond smile. “It does not mean you can’t love others, as well. Care deeply for others.” She brings their hands down, turns her palms upwards to twine their fingers together. “Anyone would be lucky to have you love them, as you love me. You have been--the best thing for me, Eggsy. The absolute best thing.”

Eggsy tightens his grip in hers. When she squeezes back, he leans forward, kisses her softly, not wanting to let her go for anything, a surge of happiness and tenderness for her. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Oh, you would be hopeless,” she remarks; he can feel the brush of her smile on his cheek where she’s pressed her lips. “Bored. Lonely. Your life void of wit and humour, all things lovely and good.”  


Eggsy can’t help but laugh, a feeling of relief and ease coming over him. “Yeah, alright,” he says, kissing her quickly again. 

“I mean it, Eggsy.” Tilde takes Eggsy’s face in her hands, palms cupping his jaw, looking intently at him. “If it would make you happy--”  


Eggsy swallows, closes his eyes. “But you--”  


“If it makes _you_ happy,” Tilde interrupts firmly, “then I am happy. And I would be very happy to do the same, to love the same--if you that is something you would agree to.”  


This time, Eggsy just nods once, taking in the comfort of her touch and her warmth, the faint floral perfume she dabs on his wrists in the morning, drifting about their room as she hums to herself, Eggsy pretending to sleep just so he could watch her in this unguarded moment, before donning the commanding presence and the noble restraints she took so readily, so proudly. The quiet, ordinary--or as ordinary as it can get, for a spy and a princess--kind of life he never dreamt of for himself.

“Okay,” Eggsy says, a bit breathless, a bit dazed, elated, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. “Yeah, okay, let’s try.”   


They kiss once more before Tilde stands, smoothing out the front of dress, the picture of elegance and grace that still manages to take Eggsy’s breath away. 

“What about you?” Eggsy asks.  


“Me?” Tilde sounds a bit surprised, though happy. “Well, I think I will be calling Roxanne.”  


Eggsy quirks an eyebrow.

Tilde tilts her head to the side, feigns nonchalance by looking at her nails. “I think I would like to work on my archery skills. She seems good with her hands, no?”

And Eggsy thinks that asking Tilde to kiss him was probably the best decision he’s made in a long, long time.


	19. all that glitters is not gold (harry/eggsy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anonymous, who requested Hartwin Orpheus and Eurydice allegory/AU.

What is it that people say?

That the good things don’t last–

\- -

Poppy looks at him down her nose, red fingernails twirling in the dim flickering lights, and she says she may be able to help.

He should know things come at a price. 

\- -

Or is it–all that glitters is not gold.

Suits and cars and guns that send shock waves down his arms when he pulls the trigger; people with secrets and places farther than he’s ever dreamed and things, like butterflies on a bathroom wall and a ring that doesn’t fit his fingers, that hangs around his neck. 

Someone comes back from life.

He thought he’d paid his due.

\- - 

“He’s not the same man.” Poppy’s eyes sharpen; sharp fingernail to her red lips. “Or maybe not.”

He says nothing.

“Or maybe you don’t care. Which is far more interesting.”

His silence holds. Mechanical tickticktick, buzzing fuzzing lights, incessant hum that trickles down his bones. 

“I bet you follow orders very well,” Poppy says.

\- - 

All good things come to an end.

Fumbling, stumbling, grow old and weary and weak, lay down in my bed and say my prayers kind of end.

Feet catching, breath caught in ribs and unable to pry loose, hear it and feel it and taste it–the metallic sour in the back of the throat–and the world goes dark kind of end.

Without warning.

With warning.

Staggering on the edge of something that could be everything, the start of the rest of your life, and it ends before it begins. In a parking lot. Thousands of miles of way kind of end.

Good things come to end and time circles back and history repeats itself and what is it they say? When one door closes, another slams open.

\- -

An ultimatum. A challenge. A request. Red fingernails tapping tapping tapping tapping. Polished gloss wood desk. Smell of cordite and copper and burnt skin in the air. In his clothes.

He crawled through hell to get here. 

One rule to follow: don’t look back.

She thinks herself kind and cruel in turns. Plays it like a game, strings to pluck, to bend and warp and let ring discordant. 

He thinks her–practical. Bored. Gnashing teeth and red lips and red tongue and red fingers. Her blood, his, theirs. 

She sits upon the chair like it is her throne and gestures to him like a queen, like a conqueror, rising from the seeping tar-pit depths.

“Not that hard, is it?”

“No,” he says even though it is.

\- - 

Long, long tunnel in the belly of her beast that trembles with it’s own guttural breaths. His hands out beside him, fingers pressed to the smooth walls. He blinks into the pervasive darkness and he cannot see.

Someone is behind him.

He had looked away, covered his eyes, wrenched the door open and breathed a sigh of relief. He had called his name; he had answered. Get out, get out, before she changes her mind. 

They shuffle back the way he had come. He can feel the brush of a hand against his back, along his shoulder. He wants to say they’re almost there–the words caught in his throat. Pry loose. He sucks in cold, stale air, chokes on dust and something sickly and nauseating, rotting.

\- -

A ghost, they said.

He was like a ghost. 

Eggsy had never been able to look right at him. Through glass, through video screens, in passing, his soft brown hair in the corner of his eye, back turned. 

“He’s not,” Eggsy had told them. “It’s just… Harry.”

\- -

Light. Pinpoint and blinding and he squints, wants to cover his eyes again. His feet ache, his fingers rubbed raw. He’s been here–lifetimes.

Almost there.

Don’t look back.

But–the footsteps have stopped. He hasn’t felt the hand across his back in some time. He holds his breath and hears–darkness. Stillness. A pinpoint of light at the end of a long, endless tunnel.

Gripped with some gnawing and vicious and untrue, Eggsy turns and–

One moment, just one, he sees Harry: shrouded in light and resplendent and real and Eggsy pries that breath, that shuddering happy half-laugh, from his lungs and it spills out of him, rips from him. 

He can have this, he will have this, the good things come to those who wait, he will have Harry back and he will not have to drown himself in his own rage and sorrow and unspoken love–

And, like a ghost, he fades before Eggsy can even reach out to him, before Eggsy can even call his name.

\- -

What is it they say?

Maybe it is too good to be true. 

The good things don’t last.

\- -

Don’t look back. Don’t look back.


	20. i am happy to see you (harry/eggsy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off an idea where Harry has gone mute post-Kentucky.

The first time Eggsy sees Harry in Kentucky, he realizes, he can’t speak. At first he's confused and shocked, thinking Statesman have it wrong. But no, the bullet did extensive damage to the Broca's area, all the centres of language and speech gone. It’s likely he will never regain full use of it. 

Eggsy is determined to be able to communicate with Harry. Harry, who knew sign language since he was 22, communicating with Statesman staff his needs, thoughts, wants. But he leaves out the emotion; they say his face is devoid of any indication of what’s going underneath. They bring him what he asks for, he says thank you, and he is polite and cursory and--empty. So, Eggsy learns sign language. 

He watches videos, asks Merlin for help, to teach him gestures and their meanings, and catches onto the basics right away. He knows Harry can hear him just fine; he wants to hear Harry again. Maybe not in the way he had before, but it’s something. When he thought he had nothing left of Harry besides an empty house, a will, a name that he kept trying to fit into. 

So, he learns. And he learns the rhythm of Harry’s hands, how elegant and graceful they are. Just like he was. It’s amazing, Eggsy thinks, once he pays attention. And a few weeks after they first lay eyes on each other, Harry is able to tell Eggsy, _Hello, Eggsy. I am happy to see you._

And it's amazing, it's brilliant, it's makes happiness unfurl in his chest like ribbons--and it's not enough. Merlin told him: half the language is in the eyes, the expressions. Harry says he is happy. But it doesn't seem to reach his eyes. 

Merlin has known it as long as Harry, talks with him, waits and watches his hands, nods, a hand over his face. Whiskey tells him one night that his aunt was born deaf and mute, that he’d known how to use sign language all his life, that he was the first one to talk to Harry, a real conversation. Harry didn’t have many of those, Whiskey tells him, almost sadly, staring at his glass. But he tried, he said. 

But Harry doesn’t let on more than what his hands give. He doesn’t show Merlin or Whiskey or the staff what he’s thinking besides what he wants them to know. But when he sees Eggsy–oh, when they both finally find each other through the glass, Eggsy knows that look: baffling disbelief and hesitant joy, the smile that flashes across his face, timid and small, and falls away just as quick. But Eggsy saw it, he knows he did. 

Merlin tells him, hand on his shoulder like he needs to steadied for this, that Harry isn’t who he was before. That whatever Harry endured, whatever he suffered, has made a home in him. And they should not set their hopes too high. 

Eggsy doesn’t believe in a life without at least a bit of chance, a bit of foolish hope. 

Eggsy comes to know all the ways Harry’s eyes scan the room, the hard line of his mouth or the soft fall of it, his posture as approachable or tenuous. The gentle tap of Harry’s finger on the inside of his wrist, hand dropping on his shoulder, resting on his elbow, his back. He knows what’s urgent, what’s merely conversational–what’s meant to just be between them.

Their own little language. Things only Eggsy comes to know. They can speak in glances, touches and cues. Eggsy wouldn't say he knows what Harry's thinking intuitively... but there's something they have that Merlin can't replicate, that Whiskey never got out of Harry in all the months he spent in the cell with this stranger, trying to let him know he wasn't alone. 

And slowly, slowly, the happiness reaches Harry's eyes. Fleeting smiles, frowns come and gone in the blink of an eye; raised brows, corners of his mouth curving up the barest amount, fluttering eyelids, turn of his head as Eggsy laughs and Harry listens to him. 

Eggsy sees it all. 

And when Harry motions for him, Eggsy watches his hands, his face, waiting before he answers. And he listens; and he hears Harry. 


	21. "eggsy buried his face in his arms" (harry/eggsy/tilde)

He had another seven hours before he even touched down in London, a debrief with Arthur who would most likely send him to medical even though he things he’s already done a decent job of the stitches himself, and then the twenty minute ride back to the flat. For some reason, it’s the thought of sitting in the back of the taxi, so close to home, that makes the long night spread out ahead of him even more irritating to contend with.

He was trying to convince himself he has the energy to drag his jellied, protesting legs over to the bar for a bottle of vodka when his glasses pinged; he suppressed the groan that threatened to bubble up, tapped at the side and greeted the other in the most gloomy, hopeless voice he could muster.

There was a clicking tongue, some muffled whispering, followed by Tilde saying, “That bad, was it?”

This just makes Eggsy groan even more, rubbing his face into his folded arms like a particularly despondent dog.

“Du stackars älskling,” Tilde murmurs, her voice low and soft. “You will be home soon.”  


“Not soon enough,” Eggsy grumbles in the crook of his elbow. “Then Arthur’s wanting a debrief.”  


“Oh, no,” Tilde says, “you can come straight home.”  


“Says who?”  


“Says me.”   


Eggsy hears more muffled talking and a burst of laughter before Tilde comes back on the phone, slightly breathless but happy, “Lucky for both of us, your exalted leader shares our bed.”

Eggsy finally lifts his head from his arms, his now face sweaty and red and irritated, glasses pinching the bridge of his nose. “Harry actually left the shop at a decent time? _Bullshit_.”

“I can be _very_ persuasive,” Tilde informs him just as Harry says over top of her, “I do not spend that much time there.”  


Eggsy only smiles, rubs at his sore cheek where he had pressed it against the table, and sighs. 

“Come home, darling,” Harry says; Eggsy can still hear Tilde in the background, the sound of her laughter and her voice as she continues to say something, Harry turning slightly away from the phone to answer her. It sits warm and sweet and welcome in him, settling happily amongst all the other things he lets bother him more than he knows it should–the days and weeks he must spend away, the bruises and marks and scars he bears, the treacherous juggling and balance he must constantly be aware of, just part of the job, he keeps telling himself–quietly reminding him that he isn’t doing this alone. That he’ll never have to. “You are dearly missed.”  


Suddenly, that twenty minute ride to home doesn’t seem so unbearable after all.


	22. "he had never expected him..." (harry/eggsy/tilde)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He had never expected him to be the sort of man who would smoke a post coital cigarette; then again he had never expected any of this to happen."

Harry hadn’t had a smoke in at least twelve years, his vices purely of the liquid and inebriating variety, but there were some things that alcohol could not touch. Mainly, the trembling, quivering, live-wire nerves of just having fucked his protege and his truly lovely (and royal) wife.

“You gonna at least offer me one of my own smokes if you’re gonna try nick ‘em?” Eggsy says with a voice so thick with smug satisfaction, Harry only startles for a second before sighing complacently and sagging against the balcony railing.  


“By all means,” Harry says, offering Eggsy the half-finished cigarette when he slides up next to Harry, though it really does feel strange since they are indeed Eggsy’s cigarettes.  


Eggsy takes a drag, cigarette pinched between his index and middle finger, cheeks hollowed out as he sucked in a breath, and Harry finds himself absently licking his lips, blaming the shiver that runs down his spine on the chill of the night. “Are you gonna freak out on us?” Eggsy asks, glancing sideways at Harry through the smoke he’s blown out between his pursed lips. 

_Us_. If Harry’s tongue didn’t feel so dry and useless, he’d certainly choke on it.

“Won’t blame you if you do,” Eggsy continues, leaning forward on the railing, arms crossed. “Kinda happened all at once, didn’t it?”  


“Yes, well.” Harry really isn’t sure what can be said that won’t come out as pedantic or misconstrued or completely affirming that he does absolutely want to freak out. It’s not his first time with multiple lovers in bed but it has never been like _this_.  


“Harry,” Eggsy says and Harry finds it rather embarrassing–especially after the fact that Eggsy most certainly had his fingers up Harry’s arse not twenty minutes ago–that he tenses under the incredibly gentle touch Eggsy gives him, his hand resting on Harry’s forearm, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the tender skin. “It’s alright, yeah? Tilde thinks you’re brilliant and me–well.” Eggsy grins, wide and unabashed and pink-cheeked and Harry would love nothing more to drag him back to bed and kiss him, keep kissing, get lost in him and Tilde. “Won’t say it now, save you doing your head in, but you know.”

That’s the problem, isn’t it? That Harry _does_ know and he feels exactly the same way.

“Even if you just want it to be a one time thing, it’s okay,” Eggsy says with a smile, takes another drag and hands the cigarette back to Harry. “But it’s cold as balls out here, I’m gonna head back in. Just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”  


“I’m fine.” Harry fiddles with the cigarette, watching the ash burn down slowly, trying to muddle through his muzzy thoughts. “And–and, I don’t,” Harry adds quickly, turning to look at Eggsy, who’s already halfway inside the room. “I don’t just want it to be a one time thing.”

“Well, good,” Eggsy says as he leans over to press a kiss to Harry’s lips, tasting of bitter smoke and warm bed and something almost deliciously sweet, candy that may have turned his tongue purple or blue, and Harry wants to chase it, to lick it out of Eggsy’s gorgeous mouth, “cos we wanna keep you, too.”


	23. "you've got mud on your ass" (eggsy/tequila)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tequila's name is Jason.

There is an unhappy little huff from somewhere on the ground, followed by a petulant retort of, “Yeah, tends to happen when you get bucked off a horse.”  


“Thought you said you’d done this before?”  


A contemplative, if a bit chagrined, silence follows as the horse trots back around the ring and wanders over to where it’s rider had taken a spectacular spill to the dirt, leaving his legs and whole left side now dripping in what they both know isn’t just mud. “Yeah, well.” The horse whinnies and nudges his shoulder, as if urging him to stand up, curious as to why he’s still on the ground and he barely resists the urge to drag his hand over his face in defeat. “Think that’s enough for one day.”

As if it had been contained only by own a thin screen, Eggsy’s laughter bursts out of him, loud and delighted, as he folds himself over the fence, shaking his head. “S’what you get when you get all cocky about breaking in a new one,” he says as Jason peevishly bats the horse away and gets himself to standing.

“You watch it or it’s gonna be your ass in this here dirt,” Jason warns him, flicking a caked piece of mud and straw in Eggsy’s direction, which he manages to dodge, laughing again.  


“Not like I’d be the one riding you anyway,” Eggsy replies with a wink.  


Jason pauses in his attempts to pick clumps of dirt and god knows what else from his hair and gives Eggsy a long, hard look.

“Want me to make good on that?”   


“As long as you don’t fall off.”  


This time, the handful of mud Jason chucks at Eggsy doesn’t miss.


	24. "so, you've taken my house?" (harry & eggsy)

Eggsy stops short, his shoulders hunching up to his ears in a way that Harry finds all at once concerning and rather charming, and Eggsy says uncertainly, “Uh–well, sort of? I mean, before it got blown to bits.”

Harry blinks down at his shoes, for a moment befuddled, before the memories catch up to him in a stomach-turning lurch and he remembers–ah, of course. “But you _did_ stay there,” Harry remarks decisively, finding pressing on with the original matter much more bearable than addressing the fact that he hasn’t quite got a full grasp on all that he has missed.

Harry watches Eggsy scuff the edge of his Oxford against the pavement and has to stop himself from scolding him and instead focuses on Eggsy’s fists shoved in his trouser pockets, the furtive way he had glanced over his shoulder and caught Harry’s gaze and looked so–unguarded, almost reluctant. Harry is entirely aware that Eggsy could have had his pick of houses within London, anything his heart could desire, and he knows that Eggsy knows this.

In all, Harry’s not entirely sure what to make of Eggsy keeping his home and his things when he certainly did not need to, neither expected or asked of him. 

Then again, he wasn’t yet sure what to make of Eggsy at all. There were many things left unsaid and Harry found himself unsure how to even start.

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy says timidly, in lieu of actually answering the question but maybe it is answer enough. “Maybe I shouldn’t have, actually a bit fucking weird if I’m being honest,” Eggsy admits with a miserable little laugh, his hand  scrubbing over his face, dragging through his hair to wreck the neat part and Harry wanted to reach out to fix it. 

“Don’t be,” Harry says, gripping the handle of his brolly just a little tighter. “Just–things. Possessions.” He waves his hand in front of his face. “Easily replaced. But you–”  


Eggsy’s gaze goes unfocused for a second, sad and dim in a distressing way where there was once so much, and Harry forgets how Eggsy has yet to live this life long enough to learn to take every new hurt, every new ache with a type of apathy that wears away at you until you are nothing by hardened steel, smooth alabaster, untouchable.

Harry forgot what this life would do to Eggsy; he still has hope that it will not come to that.

Then Eggsy purses his lips, nods his head and the dull sorrow clearing, and he swallows, his tightly clenched jaw ticking when he does it again. He shrugs, a little jerk of his shoulder, finally pausing in his efforts to completely rub out the stitching on his shoes. “I wasn’t even sure if I should but it was just…” Eggsy sighs and shrugs again and looks so much like how Harry had last remembered him, standing in his bathroom: apologetic and worn, regret written in those tired, brilliant eyes. “I couldn’t let them just get rid of all your stuff.”  


“Thank you, Eggsy,” Harry manages after a moment even when he feels the words sticking in the back of his dry throat. “Even if I didn’t get to see my things again, it’s nice to know that they were well looked after, even if it was only for a short while.”  


“Yeah?” Eggsy’s downturned mouth twitches in the corner, the beginnings of a smile. “Yeah, okay. Well, you’re welcome, Harry.”

Harry had spent a lifetime in that house at the end of the mews, had filled the walls with his butterflies, his drawings; he held his collection of postcards from around the world and Sun covers and expensive crystal tumblers in high regard, was inordinately proud of it all, despite it’s absurdity. He would be a liar to say he did not miss all those things, both for practical and sentimental values, because they had been _his_. But, he thinks, after all the years he spent surrounded by his things, curating all manner of eccentric hobbies and interests and souvenirs, giving him a place to lay his head after a mission and to drink his scotch at his dining room table and just somewhere he wanted to go at the end of the day, he thinks the best thing his little house ever gave was a place for Eggsy to call home.


	25. "merlin looked at eggsy and harry and shook his head fondly" (merlin; hartwin)

He was no fool–it had not taken him long to know just what Eggsy felt about Harry, no matter how the boy had tried to dress it up and play it off as gratitude and awe and posthumous praise for the man who had seen in him what everyone else had seemed to miss. The others had called Eggsy _a bleeding heart_ and maybe Merlin couldn’t fault them for that little bit of truth but rarely had they been witness to the Eggsy that appeared when that soft heart was taken advantage of, what was left of a man so full of compassion when the things he coveted most were taken from him and that was a man Merlin could use as a weapon and would not want to cross.

And he was certainly not as blind to not know, in some way, exactly what Harry had felt for the boy, gleaning it from Harry’s perfunctory notes added onto Eggsy’s recruit file, the few passing conversations they had had in the shuttle, the almost too considerate way he had laid an unconscious Eggsy out on the train tracks, how he had shook his head when Merlin asked if there was a problem, tight-lipped and eyes cloudy before he had boarded the plane to Kentucky and it was only because he knew, from their years of friendship and the countless hours they had spent in each other’s ears, the more Harry tried to present himself as aloof, indifferent, composed, the more it meant that he was trying to protect himself from what he believed he could not have, of what he thought he had given up the right to have so long ago.

But now he was allowed to dispose of the pretensions, of the reliving of past misjudgment, of knowing that he possessed neither the right words nor adequate advice for either of them, maybe when they needed it most, and Merlin watched Eggsy, body sagged with exhaustion and eyes closed in relief, press himself closer into Harry’s side and Harry, seemingly unaware or unconcerned with whoever was watching, wrap his arm around Eggsy’s waist to keep him there.

Merlin was neither a fool, or blind; and he was wise enough to know that they would figure it out on their own.


	26. "come back to bed, 'arry" (hartwin)

Harry only briefly looked up from where he was combing through a rather dizzying array of folders and files dug up from some hidden archive in one of Kingsman’s many satellite outposts spread across Europe; it had been a straight three days of him and Eggsy trying to pick up the few pieces left of Kingsman, finding Roxy unconscious but alive in King’s College Hospital, keeping tabs on Merlin half a world away recovering in Statesman’s facilities, gathering up tenuous contacts and benefactors from decades old documents that had failed to be updated much to Harry’s frustration, settling into the S _cotch_ business of all things, all while trying to keep their heads above water.

No home to go back to, no shop to arrive to in the morning, all the comfort and familiarity of the last thirty years of his life taken so quickly from him–it was all incredibly discomfiting, how Harry had come back home and _everything_ had changed. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to get through all this, to bringing Kingsman back together, to learning how to get himself back together, while maintaining any semblance of composure.

“Just a few more minutes,” Harry says, forced brightness in his voice to hide how tired and miserable he truly was. “I just need to finish this first.”  


He hears Eggsy groan and grumble, the shifting of bedsheets and the mattress squeaking, and then: “Can’t it wait?”

This time, Harry turns from the hotel desk where he had spread his work–the desk a sort of heavy mahogany beast that made him miss with a ridiculous little ache all the things he loved about his home office and all the other things now long destroyed–and looks toward Eggsy. 

The bedside lamp had been left on and it casts a golden glow across Eggsy’s bare chest, turning the bruises mottled across his shoulders and down his right arm a deep purple and yellow. He had expected all sorts of things coming back to London–the anger, the uncertainty, the fear of what else could go wrong–but to say he expected Eggsy would not be entirely true, but not unwelcome in any sense.

Eggsy, who had not changed so much, still the same confident, brash boy he met on the steps of Holborn, who was just as willing to jut his chin out for a fight as he was to put his heart on his sleeve, who was easy to anger and as quick to forgive, who held Harry’s hands in his and smiled at him like he couldn’t quite believe all this, who kissed him in such a tenderhearted way that the world stopped for just one glorious minute, just so Harry could hold onto it for a little longer.

So, he sets down his pen and clicks off the desk light, moving from his chair to join Eggsy. The sleepy, faint smile Eggsy gives him, his eyes barely open, is enough to convince Harry that, yes, it can all surely wait.


	27. "as soon as harry was out of earshot..." (tilwin; harry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as Harry was out of earshot, Tilde turned to Eggsy. "You never told me he was such a good looking man."

Eggsy’s certain the heat he feels prickling on his neck is just as obvious to Tilde as it is to him, so that’s why he’s spending an inordinate amount of time adjusting the cuffs on his sleeve. “Yeah, guess he’s a fit sort if that’s what you’re into–”

Tilde smiles, amused and fond, and says astutely, “I don’t think it’s what I’m into at all, älskling.”

Eggsy’s gaze flicks up to where Harry is conversing with someone else at the party, looking sharp and possibly a bit devastating in a new double-breasted navy suit and striped tie, and his stomach does this funny little lurch when Harry seems to notice Eggsy staring and looks towards him, and yeah–yeah, it’s really not what Tilde’s into at all.


	28. "eggsy shivered, 'fuck me it’s cold'" (hartwin)

From beneath the mound of blankets and pillows Eggsy had burrowed himself under, he heard Harry make a disinterested noise and the turning of the pages of the book he was reading. Eggsy wiggles his hand through the tangle of sheets to poke Harry in the ribs and elicit a more satisfactory response, mostly in the sound of Harry’s unhappy grunt.

“Go turn the heat on, then,” Harry tells him.

“What for, when I got you as my personal heater?” Eggsy says as he tucks his freezing fingers under Harry’s shirt along his sides, bringing about another wonderfully exasperated yelp that made Eggsy grin ear to ear–well, until Harry ripped down all the covers and promptly shoved him from the bed.


	29. "29 missed calls and 42 messages" (harry, eggsy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When [name] finally managed to turn the phone back on, there were 29 missed calls and 42 messages."

Harry, agitated and jumpy from having just ran through a war lord’s dingy compound with no backup due to Kingsman still finding it’s feet, squints at the bright phone screen and jabs at the first name in the list of recent callers.

Eggsy picks up on the second ring.

“I’m on a bloody mission, Eggsy, someone have better shoved a bomb up your–”  


“Harry,” Eggsy cuts him off, voice already strained and breathless, hoarse in the way that makes Harry think he’s spent a fair amount of time yelling or worse, which makes Harry tense instantly, preparing himself for anything and nothing, “Harry, I don’t know how, I don’t know what the _fuck_  is going on or fucking how but, fucking hell, they found him and he’s alive, _Jesus._ Statesman has Merlin and he’s fucking alive, Harry–”  


Harry doesn’t realize he’s dropped the phone until he’s already running out of the room.


	30. "i thought yous and harry loved each other" (eggsy, daisy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy furrowed her brows and asked her brother, “I thought yous and ‘arry loved each other?”

Eggsy glanced briefly over his shoulder to where his sister sat, staring resolutely at her colouring book and crayons with the concentration of a child who is still learning everything, before turning back to the sink and rinsing off the plate he had been scrubbing. 

“We do,” he tells her, a little less convincing than he had hoped, unnerved that he couldn’t even make it sound convincing to himself, “but sometimes it’s a lot harder than that.”

“What’d you mean?”

It’s been nearly two weeks since Eggsy moved back in with his mum and Daisy; two weeks and three days since he and Harry last talked to each other; longer even since this seemed like something he was willing to keep fighting for anymore. He had shown up on this doorstep, tired and defeated and heartbroken–but most of all relieved and the guilt at feeling not much else as time went on was nearly as unbearable as the prospect of losing Harry once was.

“It’s one of them things I’ll learn when I get bigger, yeah?” Daisy asks after he doesn’t answer.

Eggsy sighs, shaking his head, leaning with his hands pressed against the cool sink. “Oh, Dais, I really hope not.”


	31. "would you care for a dance?" (merlahad)

Merlin set his book down in his lap and slowly looked up at Harry with a skeptical and unamused look. “Are you daft?”

“No,” Harry says decorously and waves his hand impatiently in Merlin’s face. “So, we will dance or not?”

“You know I don’t dance,” Merlin tells him, gestures at his legs. “Even when I had–”

Harry takes his hand immediately, tugging him up from where he was sitting on the couch, letting Merlin lean on him to get his footing on the prosthetics he was still getting used to. 

“I’ll even let you pick the song,” Harry says when Merlin finally rights himself and looks at him.

And Harry has to admit, he could potentially develop a soft spot for Patsy Cline on vinyl.


	32. "i would say i'm sorry, but i'm not." (merlahad)

Harry stood in the doorway staring blankly at Merlin, aware that the new Ginger was trying to hover unobtrusively behind him, possibly afraid to leave her duties so early on, and found himself not caring in the slightest what she saw.

“For the record, I think you have a horrid singing voice,” Harry tells Merlin and manages to keep his voice fairly flat.

“I’ll have to do it more often, then,” Merlin replies, tilting his chin up, a sly grin on his lips.

Harry, his hand gripped so tightly onto the open door that his knuckles had turned white, felt his entire body sag in that moment and he let himself lean against the door, let out a shuddering sigh of relief, let his eye fall closed.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Harry says with a faint smile.


	33. "harry, tell merlin i'm right about this!" (harry, eggsy, merlin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz is Ginger/Agent Whiskey.

“I have no such intentions of giving my opinion,” Harry says with the air of a man who had every intention of it but was told by certain parties (Merlin) that he was not allowed to say so.

“Merle Haggard doesn’t hold a candle to John Denver,” Merlin says with snippy authority.

Eggsy points his half eaten chicken salad wrap at Merlin, a dramatic frown turning down the corners of his mouth. “Maybe we gotta send you back to Liz to fix your brain.”

“Play nicely, you two,” Harry warns them, licking the tip of his pen and scratching out another answer in his crossword.

There was no real ire to these little fights, mostly a way to keep Merlin occupied and talking, keeping his mind off the fact that he was stuck in his bed for the next weeks, surgeries looming on the horizon, more months of physical therapy after that. Not that either Eggsy or Harry minded, really; it kept Merlin happy, kept him positive, and they thought they surely owed him as much.


	34. "eggsy, it's not your fault" (harry, eggsy)

Eggsy manages to stop his hand from trembling, clutching onto the mixer he was pouring gin in to; if he spilled, he could blame it on the plane’s turbulence, on the post-fight adrenaline spike, on the aching bruises now blooming across his shoulders and back.

“Yeah,” Eggsy murmurs, not looking up to where Harry is surely watching him with stern consternation. “Yeah, I know. Chilled glass?”

“Eggsy.”

He sets the mixer down harder than necessary, the ice clinking noisily against the interior. “Chilled glass or no, Harry?” 

“Your choice,” Harry tells him flatly and says no more.


	35. "lord hart! we meet again!" (tilwin; harry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy is beaming when he finally introduces Tilde to Harry, and the last thing he expects is for Tilde to take one look and exclaim "Lord Hart! We meet again!"

Harry manages to school his admittedly startled expression into neutral affability quickly enough that he thinks, hopefully, Eggsy and the princess did not notice though he doesn’t have great expectations.

First, he looks to Eggsy, who’s eyes are wide and lips pressed together. Eggsy gives a little shake of his head and Harry, uncertain, almost goes ahead with telling the truth. But then again, this was a formal royal affair, an engagement party full of other aristocrats, royal dignitaries and other esteemed, honoured and highly influential, impressionable guests. This could end very badly for them both if Harry let slip his alias and someone overhead.

So, he follows Eggsy’s lead.

“Yes, of course,” Harry says slowly, nodding at Eggsy and Tilde.  


“Though it was merely in passing and so long ago,” Tilde says sweetly, extending her hand for Harry to take. “I can’t fault you for not remembering.”  


“Of course I do, Your Highness,” Harry says, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles. “A pleasure, as always.”  


“Such a small world!” Tilde remarks, eyes twinkling as bright as the diamonds around her neck, on her wrists, on her fingers. She turns to Eggsy, who has been sipping on his champagne for at least a full minute, his ears a splendid shade of red. “Lord Hart and I met many years ago but he made such an impression that I could hardly forget him. Though–many apologies,” she says with polite compassion, her gaze temporarily trained on his face. “May I ask?”

He finds himself reaching for side of his face, a habit he has been trying to break, before he stops himself and folds his hands together behind his back. “Thank you, Your Highness. Not a very exciting story, I’m afraid. Caught in the crossfire during V-Day, is all.” He avoids looking at Eggsy when he says this but doesn’t miss Eggsy turning away from them briefly, setting his now empty flute down on the empty tray of a waiter passing by.

“Well, I would say that is all very exciting. Actually–” Tilde pauses; Harry watches her smile turn soft as he looks to Eggsy, reaching out to him, her hand caressing his forearm before slipping down to thread her fingers through his, Eggsy looking up and returning the smile. “It’s how we met. Now, _that_ is an exciting story. Though not for polite company,” she adds with a cheeky wink.  


Eggsy somehow turns a deeper shade of red, obviously avoiding Eggsy’s gaze. Harry has to hide the smile threatening to crack his polite demeanour–it’s not like he isn’t entirely aware of the story.

“Though he did save my life,” Tilde remarks, her voice terribly sweet and adoring in a way that would usually agitate Harry in any other situation but only made him more happy that Eggsy had found her. 

“Yes,” Harry replies, “he seems to do that quite often.”  


Tilde gives him a curious little smile while Eggsy fixes him with a nearly unreadable stare if it wasn’t for the fact that Harry knows Eggsy well enough by know to see the twitch in the corner of his mouth, the glint of disbelief or awe in his green eyes.

“Now,” Tilde says, waving her hand towards the nearest table, motioning for Eggsy and Harry to sit, “you must tell me how you two could have possibly met. I want to hear every detail!”  


* * *

Eggsy was sure he had just sweat his way through the layers of thick cotton and wool by the time Harry departs from their table, bidding his farewells for the night. He didn’t know how it was going to go, introducing Harry to Tilde, but he sure as fuck did not expect all of _that_.

He sort of just went with it because the further Harry got into his convoluted and illustrious past as Lord Harry Hart, the more it seemed in bad taste that he interrupt their conversation to tell the truth.

Eggsy spends about two minutes debating on whether he should tell Tilde the truth, watching her stare out across the dance floor, looking serene and happy as their guests danced and drank the night away, before the guilt spills over and he caves.

“Tilde, babe,” Eggsy says, the sound of his chair scraping across the floor making her turn abruptly, “I’m sorry, babe, but I gotta tell you–”  


“That Harry is not really a lord?” Tilde answers him, a clever little grin lighting up her face as she fully turns towards him, resting her cheek on her fist. “Yes, I knew that.”  


Eggsy blinks, a bit dumbfounded for a moment. “I– _what_? How’d you know?”

Tilde laughs brightly and leans forward to kiss Eggsy’s cheek. “Oh, älskling, he may be charming but he is not that terribly convincing.”

And Eggsy just nods because, well, yeah. That is sort of the truth. 


End file.
